


Let You Live

by andromedacrawley



Series: The Lucky Ones [2]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Deep Conversations, Established Relationship, F/M, Family, Friendship, Grieving, Ireland, Mary and Tom Take Ireland, Past Rape/Non-con, Romance, rating is just to be safe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:42:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 44,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24590251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andromedacrawley/pseuds/andromedacrawley
Summary: “It’s strange,” she mused, “how you cannot possibly know everything there is to know about one person and yet fall in love with them anyway.”Tom smiled down at her. “That’s not me, love.” His fingertips were rubbing her shoulder. “You know everything that’s important.”In which Tom and Mary travel to Ireland for a funeral and learn more about one another.
Relationships: George Crawley & Mary Crawley, Mary Crawley & Nuala, Mary Crawley & Original Characters, Mary Crawley & Robert Crawley, Sybbie Branson & Mary Crawley, Sybbie Branson & Tom Branson, Tom Branson & George Crawley, Tom Branson & Kieran Branson, Tom Branson & Original Characters, Tom Branson/Mary Crawley, Tom Branson/Sybil Crawley (past)
Series: The Lucky Ones [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1628806
Comments: 71
Kudos: 95





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! Welcome back! This story takes place a couple months after the last chapter but about a month before the epilogue. This will be a relatively short story (I only have six chapters planned overall) but I promise they'll be lengthy chapters! I hope you enjoy!

**Let You Live**

**Chapter One**

When Mary Crawley had first been married, she hadn't needed to change her surname. That was one of the benefits, she supposed, of marrying a distant relation who also happened to be your father's heir. But for the first time in her life, it was looking more and more likely that it would be changing.

 _Mary Branson. Lady Mary Branson. Mary Josephine Branson._ She found her brain going on nonsensical tangents, iterating every possible version of what her name would be like if she were to marry Tom as she walked down the stairs that morning. It had become her mantra these days. They all sounded right— as if it was meant to happen.

Of course, this was all very presumptuous. Tom hadn't asked her to marry him yet— nor was he exactly hinting at it, either. She supposed that after months of sneaking around and trying to keep their relationship a secret, he was trying to adjust the newest element of their relationship— actually being open about it. Their relationship raised plenty of eyebrows wherever they went, which was an adjustment that Mary was slowly being accustomed to.

Not everyone had taken kindly to it. During one of their walks through the village, Mary had seen a group of women whispering amongst themselves, looking over their shoulders with simultaneous fascination and disgust. Even when Mary fixed one woman with a severe look of her own, it didn't seem to deter them from staring.

"Ignore them, love," Tom told her with a sigh.

Mary tried, she really did, but she couldn't help but be bothered by it all. Their relationship wasn't exactly a conventional one by any means, but she didn't understand the need to gawp at them like fish. They had no way of understanding what her and Tom had gone through together nor how much they truly cared for one another— at least the people who mattered to them were supportive.

In spite of all the hurdles, Mary was happier than she had been in a long time. She was seeing the world through rose-tinted glasses. Tom made life a more pleasurable experience— whether it was spending time with the children or taking lengthy strolls across the estate, Mary felt her heart pounding rapidly in her chest.

She loved him; it had taken her so long to realize it, but she did. And he loved her. It was a new sort of love, one she had never felt before in her life. Maybe it should have scared her, but instead, she found herself excited for every moment she spent with him.

It was why, that fateful day, that she was so taken aback. It was a perfectly ordinary start to the day. Papa and Tom were already in the dining room when she arrived, both greeting her cheerfully. While Tom knew how to cook for himself after years of fending for himself in the chauffeur's cottage, he preferred to dine with them at the house. It was a small hassle for him, as he now had to rise earlier to make the walk each morning from the agent's house, but she adored him all the more for his sacrifice of sleep.

"Good morning, my darling," she greeted him, bending to kiss his cheek, unable to see the expression of bemusement written on her father's face, though she felt her cheeks grow warm. She wasn't exactly one for public displays of affection— Tom, however, was. It was for his sake and to reassure him of her feelings that she partook in this daily ritual... and because she loved seeing the way he lit up each time she did it.

"Good morning," Tom replied, smiling as she walked to take her seat. By the look on his face, one would have thought Mary had moved the mountains for him. It was the same look that obliterated her minute discomfort and reminded her that it was worth it. There were worst things to endure than the world knowing she loved Tom.

Papa merely shook his head before declaring, "I'll never get used to this," before picking up his newspaper as if to shield himself from their affections.

Mary and Tom exchanged a look of amusement before turning to their breakfast. This was a mild reaction from Papa— less than a month ago, he would let out loud sighs and demand that they " _stop doing that, I haven't even eaten my breakfast yet._ " As much as he insisted he would never adjust, he'd come a long way— they all had.

Breakfast commenced as usual. They talked business and the estate, Tom updating them on how Kieran was faring at the shop. However, the mood altered the moment Thomas said, "There's been a letter for you, Mr. Branson," before depositing the letter into Tom's outstretched hand. Tom thanked him, eyes flickering over the address before hastily opening it. Mary, who had been engrossed in her breakfast, watched him with keen interest when she heard the sound of ripping paper. She hoped it wasn't another one of those hateful letters... they had received some rather nasty ones from people who felt the need to tell them they were dishonoring their dead spouses by being together. Mary relished in ripping them into tiny shreds whereas Tom cast them into the fire as soon as he had a chance.

Tom stared at the letter, eyes darting back and forth. His face had grown pale and he looked as if he were about to be ill. Before either Mary or her father could enquire after it, Tom dropped the letter and stood up, the chair legs loudly announcing his sudden movement as they scraped across the floor. "Excuse me," he muttered, tossing his napkin on the table and all but fleeing the dining room. Mary felt helpless, glued to her seat as he left the room.

"What was that about?" Papa asked, craning his head to the now closed door that Tom had just exited.

"It was a letter from Ireland, my Lord," Thomas offered, sounding as mystified as Mary felt.

Mary felt three pairs of eyes on her, as Papa, Thomas, and Andy all stared at her. She couldn't help but feel slightly irritated; just because they were involved romantically didn't mean she was able to communicate telepathically with him.

Still, she couldn't help but be curious. Mary dabbed at her mouth with her napkin before rising to her feet and walking to the other side of the table. Tom's letter was laying on the floor. As Mary knelt to pick it up, she said, "He won't mind if I read it." Tom was, if nothing else, honest with her.

 _Dear Tommy,_ the letter read, written in blue ink,

_I'm so sorry to disturb you when I'm sure you're busy, but I'm afraid I have some very sad news. Your dear mother has gone to be with God and your father. She wasn't ill; the doctor said she must have passed in her sleep, so it was a peaceful ending and she didn't suffer. It's cold comfort, but a relief all the same._

_She was very proud of you, Tommy, and loved you very much. She was wary of you marrying Lady Sybil, but she was glad to know that her family welcomed you as their own when you could no longer return home. She would be glad to know you have them to lean on right about now. Your mother always longed to see you again one day, and I know she is looking down on you now._

_Love,_

_Aunt Nora_

Mary lowered the letter, only to find all three men watching her, eager and curious to know just what had provoked that sort of reaction from Tom. "His mother's died," she managed to say, the words sounding hollow.

Papa sucked in a deep breath. "How awful," he murmured.

"I should go to him," Mary said immediately, breakfast forgotten.

"Are you sure?" Papa asked, his usual snark gone and replaced by concern. "He might want to be alone right now. He's had a terrible shock."

"I don't care what he wants right now," Mary said, folding the letter back up so that it could fit into her pocket. She wasn't sure if Tom would want to save such a ghastly reminder, but it shouldn't be left in the dining room for just anyone to pick up and read. "Nobody should be alone when they're grieving." Without saying another word, Mary exited the dining room, heart heavy, and building up her armor. She would need to be strong now, for him.

Mary remembered Mrs. Branson— admittedly not very well, but she had learned plenty about the woman from Sybil's letters from her time in Dublin and from their introductions prior to the wedding. She had been a small, stern woman, but it was clear to anyone that she loved Tom a great deal. "He's a good boy," she had informed Mary and Edith shortly after they met her in her tiny flat in Dublin, jaw firm. "He might not be a Duke, but he's got a good heart, and that's worth more than all the money in the world. You girls would be lucky if you found yourselves a man as decent as he is."

She'd been right; Tom was everything she had said and more. Mrs. Branson had raised her son well. Her loss wouldn't be one Tom would overcome easily— which was why Mary felt she must help him in any way she possibly could.

When Mary found him, he was on her favorite bench, hunched over and shoulders shaking. "Oh, my darling," Mary murmured, taking a seat beside him. She rested one of her hands on top of his own as he sobbed. It hurt to see him like this...

Several minutes passed before Tom's tears subsided. "Did you read it, then?" He asked, voice shaky.

Mary nodded. "I hope you don't mind."

He shook his head. "Easier this way. I don't think I can bring myself to say it." He moved the hand she was holding so that their fingers intertwined. Mary's gaze fell down to it as he leaned his head against her shoulder. _My poor darling_ , she thought.

Another several, silent minutes passed before Tom broke it. "You know what I just realized?"

"What's that?"

"I can't go to the funeral."

The realization hit Mary like a ton of bricks. Of course... she had nearly forgotten the terms of the agreement negotiated on his behalf. Uncertain of what to say (or if there was anything she _could_ say), Mary squeezed his hand a little tighter.

* * *

Tom didn't remember staggering across the grounds to reach his house, but he must have because there he was. Mary's hand was in the middle of his back, guiding him over to the sofa where he crashed down.

He was glad she had read the letter instead of coming to ask him what was wrong. He didn't know if he could bring himself to say _My Mam is dead—_ if he did, it would make it real.

He hadn't seen Mam in years— not since he and Sybil lived in Ireland. She lived two blocks away from them, in a small flat, the same one the two of them had lived in when they moved away from Bray. At least twice a week (and always on Sundays), he and Sybil would walk over to Mam's for dinner, one of their most treasured traditions in Ireland. If he closed his eyes, he could still picture it: Mam bringing the food out to the table, Sybil regaling them with her stories from the hospital, while Tom marveled at the fact he was there with the two most important people in the world to him.

Things had changed.

"Are you sure you don't want to go upstairs? You can lay out on your bed," Mary offered.

Tom shook his head. "This is fine." Truthfully, he didn't know if he had the strength to climb up the stairs. All his energy seemed to have been sapped away.

Mary sat by him on the couch. Mam would never see him with Mary, he realized. The same day Mary had told him how she really felt, he penned a letter to his mother, explaining everything to her. Her reply was on a sheet of paper, tucked away in a drawer somewhere. "What do you want me to do?" Mary asked quietly.

Tom has no idea how to answer that. All he had was questions— _Why Mam, why now, why, why, why?_ "Nothing," he told her. He stared ahead at the empty fireplace. "You being here is enough."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mary nod. Then, her hand slipped into his. Tom closed his eyes, breathing deep through his eyes and relieved he wasn't alone.

* * *

"Mary," Papa began, clearly uncomfortable. "I really don't think there is anything that can be done. Shrimpie and Murray made it quite clear to me that if Tom were to return to Ireland, he would be arrested immediately."

"But that was so long ago!" insisted Mary, rising from her chair. "Surely something could be done now! It isn't fair!"

"No, my dear girl, it's not," Papa agreed. "But I am afraid that is the way it is."

She let out a sigh. "Couldn't you at least try? For Tom's sake?" Before he could reply, she challenged, "Put yourself in his shoes for one moment! Can you imagine if you had to live in America with Grandmama and Uncle Harold and you couldn't come home for Granny's funeral? Wouldn't you want someone to fight for you?"

Papa was rendered speechless. He blinked slowly before finally saying, "I cannot promise anything, but I will certainly try."

"Thank you," Mary said, able to let out a sigh of relief.

"How is he holding up, then?" Papa asked, evidently concerned. His hands were folded behind his back, the lines in his face emphasized as he furrowed his brow.

Mary hesitated. How could she begin to explain it? "As well as can be expected," she explained. "I walked him back to his house and promised I'd return with the children." She hesitated before adding, "I thought I might ask Mrs. Patmore for a basket of food to take to him. He didn't eat much of his breakfast at all—"

"Of course. Take him whatever he needs." Mary was somewhat surprised by his insistence. Papa was concerned about propriety and spending hours at Tom's was normally something he might disapprove of. "Please send him our condolences as well."

Mary nodded. "I shall." Her eyes flickered for the clock. "I had better go. I don't want to leave him alone for long."

Papa nodded thoughtfully. "I hope Tom knows how very lucky he is to have you," he told her.

Mary shook her head. She was his daughter; of course he would say that. It was the other way around— being around Tom made her strive to be a better person. "I will see you later," she told him, kissing his cheek before heading to the door.

"Will you stay there for dinner, then?" Papa asked just before she stepped out of the library.

Mary paused. She hadn't even let herself ponder it. "I don't know," she finally said. "But I'll stay there as long as I need to."

Papa nodded. "Ring up to the house if it gets dark. We'll send Pratt over with a car so you and George aren't forced to stumble around in the night."

Mary smiled slightly. "Thank you, Papa."

* * *

_Tom,_

_I'm surprised and I'm not. You always talked about that Mary of yours far more than a man ought to talk about his sister-in-law. I suppose the thing that surprises me is to learn your feelings aren't one-sided. You know I'm not slighting you when I say that— merely that I'm surprised that she might have actually listened to me all those years ago when I told her how lucky a woman would be to call you hers._

_I must confess, I don't know your Lady Mary— the woman you talk about in your letters seems so different from the one I met and yours and Sybil's wedding. Very pretty, but very grand. Not the sort of woman I'd imagine you to be interested in. Still, I imagine there is more to her than I observed, if she's the one who has finally caused your head to turn._

_You said she lost her husband some years ago so I suppose she understands your loss. That's an important thing to look for in a partner. I never remarried after your father passed, partially because I never was able to find someone to compare and because too many single men at my age didn't know about love or loss the same way I did— and if they did, they weren't the sort of man who would help me look after my boy. At any rate, I am pleased that you've found someone who has and can love your little girl like her own._

_I know you're a smart boy (if not an impulsive, headstrong one) and if you believe she is being sincere when she says she loves you as well, then I suppose she must be. You know her heart better than I do. In the end, all I want is for you to be happy— and if Lady Mary can do that, than she has earned my blessing._

_All my love,_

_Mam_

Tom wiped his tears away with the back of his hand before tucking the letter back where he found it. He was glad to have told her; he'd held back on telling Kieran initially, knowing it would only be a matter of time before he could speak to him face to face. But with Mam, there was no chance of that, unless she planned to travel to England— which was never likely.

The telephone loomed ominously on the opposite side of the room. It had been installed only two weeks ago or so, which made life here much easier. Tom stood still for a moment or so before crossing the room, picking up the receiver. When the operator asked him who he wished to speak to, he said, "Kieran Branson, at Branson Motors."

A few seconds passed before Kieran picked up. "Branson Motors, how may I help you?"

"It's me, Kieran." Tom pressed his lips before asking, "Did you get a letter from Aunt Nora?"

A sigh. "I did."

Tom nodded. "When is the funeral?" His voice trembled on the last word. His eyes clenched shut. He thought he had the strength to do this, to talk about it without falling apart.

"This Saturday," Kieran said gruffly. "Are you planning on coming?"

"I can't," Tom answered, voice clipped.

Kieran cursed. "Sorry. I forgot."

Tom shook his head before realizing such a thing was useless. Kieran couldn't bloody see him... "Not your fault," he replied, a lump steadily growing in his throat. If only he hadn't been so foolish, so stupid... He banished away the thoughts as best as he could by saying, "You can close the shop this afternoon. You don't need to work, not now."

"I don't mind the work. It helps take my mind off it," Kieran responded. "But I'll close it before I leave— unless you plan on coming in."

"I don't think I will," Tom told him, tilting his head up to the ceiling. "To be honest... I don't know what I'm going to do."

* * *

"Are we having a picnic, Mummy?" George asked, eying the basket that Mary had as they walked down the dirt path. George and Sybbie had been ecstatic when she had come to collect them but until now, neither of them had bothered to question why.

Truthfully, Mary didn't know how to begin. She didn't want to overstep and inform Sybbie when Tom would likely wish to speak to her himself, but at the same time, she wanted to spare him from the pain. Still, it didn't seem right, not giving them a warning. "Not exactly," she said, glancing over to Sybbie. "Your— Your father is quite sad right now, darling, but he wants to see both of you very much. You'll cheer him up a great deal."

Sybbie frowned, her eyebrows furrowing. "Is it about my Mummy?" She asked innocently. "Because sometimes he's sad about her."

Mary shook her head, her heart going out for the poor little girl walking beside her. Even though she had never known her other grandmother, it didn't seem fair for such a sweet girl to know so much loss already. "No," she said, "not this time."

Sybbie didn't seem to know what to make of that. She kicked at a small stone in front of her, sending it skidding ahead of them to the opposite side of the path where George was walking. He stopped to kick at it, missing entirely, before Mary urged him to keep walking.

Mary was surprised to find Tom by his telephone when they entered his house. He was speaking lowly and looking unspeakably distraught, but he allowed himself a small smile as Sybbie ran over to hug his legs. "I'll call you back later," he said to the person on the other end of the phone before hanging up. He bent down to pick Sybbie up. "Hello, darling."

"We brought you food," Sybbie informed him, pointing to the basket Mary was still holding, "so you wouldn't be as sad."

Tom's brows furrowed as he glanced at Mary. Worried that he might think she had told them already, "The children know that something very unfortunate has happened, but I didn't tell them what."

Tom nodded, seeming less concerned. "Sybbie," he said, facing his daughter, "do you mind if we go have a chat upstairs? Just us two?"

Sybbie shook her head, though she glanced over at George. Tom beamed up at her, though it didn't quite make its way to his eyes. "We'll be back in a while or so," he told Mary.

"Of course. However long you need." She glanced down at her son, who was now holding her hand. "We will be waiting down here."

Tom nodded before he and Sybbie headed upstairs. Mary waited until after they left the room before walking over to the table, placing the basket down on it. "What's going on, Mummy?" George asked, toddling after her.

Mary ceased her task. "Tom has received some bad news, Georgie." She knelt down to be at his level. "You see, his mother has passed away."

Mary wondered if maybe the euphemism was something George would be unfamiliar with— after all, he was only four. However, he seemed to grasp it. "Oh."

"Yes," Mary said, reaching out to touch up his hair. She didn't quite know what else to say...

George seemed to think about it. "What happened to her?"

Mary shook her head. "She went to sleep one night and never woke up," she said, hoping that wouldn't frighten her son. "She was an older woman," she said, thinking of the woman. She wasn't as old as Granny, obviously, but at least ten years older than Mama and Papa. "But sometimes it happens without any warning."

"Will Sybbie be sad, then?" George asked when Mary sat in one of the chairs, her knees growing tired of crouching.

"I imagine so," said Mary, scooping him up onto her lap. "She never had a chance to meet her, so I suppose she will be quite upset that she never will."

George was quiet for a moment or so. "Did you bring them oranges?" He pointed at the basket.

Mary blinked. "I'm not quite sure what's all in here to be honest," she said, flipping open the wicker tabs to peer inside. "Mrs. Patmore packed it for me." Mary used one hand to support George and another to peek through the basket. "It looks mostly like bread, cheese, and some apples. No oranges, I'm afraid. Why do you ask?"

"Oranges are my favorite," he told her. "I wanted to give some to them. To cheer them up."

Mary felt as though her heart was melting. She knew that naturally she would be biased, but she couldn't help but think he was the sweetest boy in the world. "Perhaps we can bring them some tomorrow. I'm sure they would like that very much. But I think, for right now, be as nice to them as I know you can be."

* * *

Speaking with Kieran has helped shake Tom out of his blue mood, if only for a little while. Seeming to sense his brother needed to take his mind of things, Kieran diverted the conversation to business and cars and troublesome customers. He'd even managed to get a laugh out of Tom when relayed a tale about a "tetchy toff" (as Kieran described him while impersonating the man's accent) who was convinced he understood automobiles better than Kieran.

Seeing Sybbie, George, and Mary also managed to lift him from his sorrows for a split second. While Mam and Sybil had at one point been the most important figures in his life, these three were the ones currently occupying that space.

Tom was grateful that Mary hadn't told Sybbie quite yet. As her father, he ought to be the one to impart this news, but at the same time, he half wished she had put him out of his misery by telling her.

Tom knew it would be hard when his daughter stared up at him from the edge of her bed, her blue eyes wide. "Daddy, what's wrong?"

God, how could he tell her about this? He was used to her questions about death and Sybil, but he'd never needed to broach the topic himself. Growing up without a mother had meant that Sybbie had always been aware her mother was dead without needing to really be told. But this— this was different.

"You remember how I've always told you about your Nana in Ireland?"

Sybbie nodded.

This was the hard part. Tom braces himself. "She's passed away, darling," he told her.

"Oh," said Sybbie, blinking. Tom watched her as she stared down at her skirt. "Will you miss her?"

"I will. Very much." There were no tears in his eyes— now, he felt strangely composed. He was relieved, though— while he wasn't like Crawleys, who always seemed ashamed of their feelings, he didn't want to break down in front of Sybbie... not when he was meant to stay strong for her. "I'm sad that I will never see her again... and I'm sad you'll never meet her, especially when I know the two of you would have loved each other."

Sybbie looked up. "It's okay, Daddy," she told him. "I'll meet her someday. When we're in Heaven."

Hearing those words helped, really. Hoping his daughter would indulge her poor father, Tom smiled down at her before scooping her onto his lap. She was getting so big... it was hard to believe she would be turning six soon. "That's right. You will." He kissed the top of her head.

* * *

The first thing George did upon seeing Tom and his cousin was envelope them in hugs— well, in the case of Tom, hugging his legs until Tom lifted him in the air. "I'm sorry about your Mummy, Tom," George told him genuinely.

"Thank you, George," Tom said. "But I'm happy the three of you are here now." Hs eyes flitted towards Mary, causing her heart to skip a beat in spite of everything.

Mary directed them all to the table, where all the food Mrs. Patmore sent had been sliced. Sybbie managed to their mind off the gloom by emphatically telling them about _The Tale Peter Rabbit_ , the latest story Nanny had read to them while George chimed in every once in a while with additional details. Mary was pleased to see Tom laugh and smile, especially when it seemed it was genuine. Still, he barely touched his food, only taking small bites at a time. When George and Sybbie had declared they were full, half of Tom's food was on his plate.

"Can we play now, Daddy?" Sybbie asked.

Tom glanced at her, silently seeking permission for George, which Mary granted with a small nod. "Go ahead," he told them, and the children ran excitedly towards the stairs, their small feet creating an alarming amount of noise as they stomped up the steps.

Mary took care of the plates— well, she sat them in the sink, anyway— before turning to Tom, eying his plate questioningly. He glanced down at it before handing it to her. "Thank you," he told her. "It was a lovely idea... I'm just afraid I've lost my appetite."

"There's no need to apologize," Mary murmured. "All I did was chop it up. It was hardly taxing to prepare." She slid his food into the bin before placing the plate with the rest and walking over to Tom. She let her fingers slide through his hair, stiff with pomade, before saying, "I only worry about you. I wouldn't want you getting sick."

Tom met her eyes before reaching for the hand in his hair. He studied it carefully before placing a kiss on the inside of her wrist, the action sending sparks of electricity throughout her entire body. "I'll be all right, love," he promised, before dropping her hand.

Mary imagined sitting on his lap, just so she could be close to him, but knew that wasn't possible. If it was only the two of them in this house, then possibly, but what with George and Sybbie... well, Mary would be mortified. Still, she smiled before tugging him to his feet. Tom followed after her as she lead him over to the couch (a more comfortable place, in her opinion, to converse), asking, "How did it go, then? With Sybbie?"

"Well enough," Tom said, his shoulders lowering. Mary regretted bringing it up instantly, seeing how quickly he had deflated. She sat next to him, sinking into the plush cushions. "If anything, she was the one comforting me."

That didn't surprise Mary in the slightest; Sybbie, though headstrong and able to dominate many a conversation, was incredibly sensitive. She hated to see people upset. "That sounds like our Sybbie," she said with a smile.

Tom was silent for a moment or two, far away from her. Mary wanted patiently, trying to prepare about each possible outcome. However, she never anticipated him asking, "Do you ever think about it? Having more children?"

Mary was taken aback. Truthfully, she had actively avoided those sorts of thoughts— not because she didn't want more children but because she felt it was presumptuous when there still hadn't been serious talk of marriage. Her thoughts again strayed to all her new names— being introduced as _Lady Mary Branson_ when she entered a room, correcting old friends with, _It's Mary Branson now, actually_ , signing _Mary J. Branson_ in place of _Mary J. Crawley_ on documents. "Sometimes," she answered, careful. She watched for his reaction. "But I think it is a little soon. We aren't even engaged yet."

Tom nodded. "You're right," he acquiesced. "I just suppose I was realizing that if we were— if we ever..." He trailed off before meeting her eyes. She understood his meaning perfectly and nodded to let him know that. Speaking without words had come naturally to them. "I realized they would never live in a world with her in it. There's never be a chance of someday meeting her. She'd be forgotten."

Mary shook her head. "Not forgotten," she said. "Not when you will have so many stories to tell them." It was such a strange, marvelous idea, abstract as it was, that they might have children. Mary tried envision Sybbie and George with a tiny baby with a blend of hers and Tom's features. But, realizing this idea would be no help, she asked, "Do you have any photographs of her?"

"No," Tom admitted. "I used to, in my flat with Sybil, but we didn't have enough time to grab it before we had to leave."

 _My poor darling,_ thought Mary. "I'm sure she would have saved it," she told him, briefly recalling some talk about Mrs. Branson salvaging their belongings in their flat. She had sent back some of the essentials for them, but Mary knew there was no way she could have possibly been able to mail them everything. "And I've asked Papa to look into things. About you being able to return to Ireland." She waited with bated breath.

Tom lifted his head up from his hands. "What?"

"You were so— so upset, about not being able to attend the funeral," Mary said. She studied his face carefully, hoping to find the glimmer of gratitude or astonishment, but instead finding confusion. "Papa is contacting Shrimpie and he'll check with the Home Secretary."

Mary wasn't prepared for Tom shaking his head. "They aren't going to let me back, Mary," he said wearily. "There's no way."

Mary blinked. She hadn't expected him to accept defeat so easily. It was so unlike her Tom... "A lot of time has passed," Mary pointed out, not willing to let him give up on the idea before thinking about it. "Plenty of things have changed. And this is a special circumstance—"

"Not in the eyes of the government!" Tom interrupted. He wasn't angry, per say, but looking extremely frustrated. Nevertheless, it wasn't the reaction she had anticipated. He swallowed. He raked his fingers through his hair, clearly distressed. "I'm sure many men's mothers have died and they weren't granted the opportunity to see her buried." Mary flinched at his harsh words but Tom didn't notice. "Why should an exception be made for me?"

"Not every man has the same connections you do," she pointed out as diplomatically as possible.

Tom shook his head. "I don't have any connections. Your father has connections, but not me."

"Well, he's using those connections to help _you_ ," said Mary firmly. "It isn't fair that you should be denied an opportunity to say goodbye."

"No," Tom agreed, "it's not, but unfortunately we don't live in a world that's fair." He let out a loud sigh before asking, "Can we change the topic, please?"

Mary was perplexed. Obviously, Tom needn't be obliged to shower her with praises, but she hadn't expected him to be so despondent. It was so unlike him... she couldn't help but be worried. "Very well," she said cautiously. "What do you want to talk about?"

Tom leaned back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling. "Anything."

Mary hesitated, racking her mind for anything of interest. "It's funny that you mentioned about having more children earlier," she began, which prompted Tom's eyes to widen and his gaze to drop to her stomach. She realized her mistake at once. "Oh, don't worry! Nothing like that!" Mary assured him. "I would have told you if it— we were—" She cleared her throat before explaining, "George told me the other day that he wants a baby brother."

Laughter seemed to bubble out of Tom. He tilted his head back and Mary felt a spark of pride. _I've made him happy,_ she thought, smiling. "What did you tell him?"

"I don't remember," said Mary, thinking back to it. "I was taken by surprise. I think I said something to the effect that he would have to wait a while."

"Probably best," Tom agreed, nodding his head. "Where on Earth did he get an idea like that?"

"Johnny." Tom understood immediately. "He's been spending more time with George and Sybbie in the nursery lately, and George absolutely adores him. Nanny says he's quite the mother hen."

Tom's lips twitched. "You know, when we were in America, Sybbie asked me where babies came from."

"And what did you tell her?"

"I said she'd have to wait until she was older," Tom said. "She hasn't asked since, thank God."

"So there were no stories about a stork?" asked Mary, amused.

Tom shook his head. "I didn't want to be dishonest."

Mary couldn't help smile. Of course he wouldn't... Tom was always honest. It was one of the many things she loved about him. "Of course you wouldn't," she said, leaning back on the couch. "I should have known better."

He let out a soft chuckle before asking, "And what you tell George, when he finally asks?"

"I'll tell him the story about the stork. Obviously," Mary said seriously before they both burst into laughter. "No... I haven't thought about it, to be honest. No matter how much I try to prepare for it, I'm sure I'll never be ready for that question."

"Of course you will," Tom told her. "I've complete faith in you."

Mary felt as if her heart grew in her chest. "What's been going on at the shop? Anything exciting?" She asked, reaching out to hold his hand, and smiling when his eyes lit up with excitement as he told her about the latest plans.

* * *

Mary's neck ached as she lifted up her head from the back of the couch, face to face with Tom. His eyes were closed, just as deep in slumber as she had been before waking. The living room was dark, save for the moonlight spilling in from the windows to illuminate Tom's face. _We must have fallen asleep,_ she realized. They had been on the couch for hours, talking about everything under sun— business, the children, the estate, Edith, even Evelyn Napier and his new fiancée, Flora Kelley— before George and Sybbie had come downstairs. "I'm tired, Mummy," George had whined. "Are we going home yet?"

Mary's gaze had flickered for Tom, who seemed to be bracing himself for something unpleasant. Mary realized that his thoughts would likely take a darker turn the moment she left, leaving him to dwell on his gloom. "Not quite yet, darling," she told her son. "But it is quite late—" she glanced over to Tom, "Do you mind if he lies down with Sybbie until we head back to house?"

Some of the light returned to his eyes. "You'll have to ask her."

Sybbie, who had moments ago been looking as exhausted as George, perked up. "Yes!" She said, jumping up and down. Mary had no idea how one little girl could be so full of energy. "It will be like the old times!"

So Mary and Tom has readied the children for bed, George dressing in a pair of pajamas Sybbie had outgrown. Mary had buttoned up the shirt and tightened the drawstring of the trousers, pleased that he didn't mind the floral pattern. They tucked the children into Sybbie's bed, and Mary had sat on the edge of it as Tom read them a short bedtime story from the rocking chair. George drifted off first, though Sybbie managed to stay awake until it ended. Mary and Tom kissed them both goodnight before sitting down on the couch again to resume talking.

Tom looked so peaceful— it was so hard to believe, looking at him now, that he had been dealt a tremendous blow. Struck by a wave of affection, Mary longed to kiss him. It was only the risk of waking him that prevented her from doing so. She rose, carefully as possible, before stepping into the kitchenette to get a glass of water. She craned her head back to the couch as she twisted the faucet, hoping she wouldn't disturb him.

Sipping her water, Mary wondered over to Tom's desk. A framed photograph of Sybil sat there in a silver frame, along with a picture of himself and Sybbie at her christening. Mary supposed he didn't have a photograph of her to set there... perhaps she could rectify that, someday soon. Her eyes glanced over to the clock, which told her it was 1:27 in the morning.

Her stomach dropped. Oh, God... her and George should have been home hours ago! Without thinking, Mary hurried across the room, water splashing out of her glass as she went to the telephone. She cursed under her breath, hand shaking as she picked up the receiver.

Papa, surprisingly, was the one to pick up. "I wondered when I would be getting a call," he said, voice tired and weary.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered. "Tom and I— we were talking on the couch and we fell asleep—" It sounded so flimsy, she realized halfway through the sentence, but it was the truth. "I've only just woke up."

"I supposed it was something like that," Papa said with a sigh. "What about George?"

"He's with Sybbie. I put him to bed hours ago and I promised to wake him up when we were getting ready to leave."

Papa let out another sigh. "I sent Pratt to bed probably around the same time. Is there any need for me to wake him?"

Mary hesitated. "No," she said, feeling her cheeks grow warm. "I can sleep in the guest bedroom tonight."

"Very well," said Papa wearily. "Now that that's all sorted, I think I'll go to bed myself. Goodnight."

"Goodnight," Mary echoed before hanging up the phone. She was about to let out a sigh when an arm wrapped around her from behind. She let out a yelp before smelling the familiar cologne and recognizing the feel of the body behind her. "Goodness," she said, relieved, "You startled me."

"Sorry, love," Tom murmured, voice thick with sleep. He pressed a kiss to her temple.

"Did I wake you?"

"I think so," Tom said. "I heard you talking."

"I'm sorry," she breathed, placing her hand on top of the one Tom had set on her hip. "I only just realized how late it was."

Tom rested his forehead on her shoulder. "So you're staying here, then?"

"It seems so."

"In the guest bedroom?" Mary couldn't help but smile as Tom kissed the side of her neck. As intimate as it was, Mary sensed no amorous intentions— merely a desire to be close to her. "I don't want to worry you, love, but that mattress is as stiff as a board. Horribly uncomfortable."

"Oh," she said, leaning back into him. The scent of him was driving her mad... "Well, is there somewhere more comfortable I could sleep?"

Tom kissed a spot near her ear. Mary closed her eyes, grateful he was still holding onto her. Her legs felt as if they were about to give way. "I do have one place," he whispered, "but it's small and you'll have to share. Is that alright?"

"More than alright," Mary breathed, spinning around to kiss him. They embraced for a minute or so, lazily enjoying one another. When they parted, breathless, Tom reached for Mary's hand before leading her up the stairs.

The bedroom was dark until Tom turned on a single lamp. Mary closed the door behind them, hands reaching behind her to tug the zipper of her dress down. When the movement proved fruitless, she asked, "Darling, do you mind?"

Tom, who had been pulling back the covers for them, turned around to see what she meant. "Not at all," he said, walking across the room to slide the zipper down. The blue dress pooled at her feet and she stepped out of it, now in her underclothes.

"Thank you," she said, turning around to face him. There was a strange look in his eye as he looked down at her, prompting her to ask, "Is something the matter?"

Tom shook his head. "No. Not at all." He bent down, kissing her deeply. When it ended, their foreheads were pressed together and Mary watched him through her eyelashes. "It's just— you're so beautiful."

Mary wasn't unaccustomed to being told she was attractive, but it didn't mean much unless it came from someone she cared about... like Tom. She couldn't stop herself from smiling. "You're rather handsome yourself," she told him.

Tom kissed her again, this time his hands bunching up the fabric of her chemise. Mary pulled him close to her, luxuriating in the sensation. "Sometimes I can't believe it," he confessed in between kisses, causing Mary to falter slightly. Was he referring to his mother? "It doesn't seem real— it's like something out of the things I used to dream up." Any tension in her body relaxed. He kissed her, long and gentle, before pulling away. "Having you here with me now— I can't believe how lucky I am."

"I'm the lucky one, my darling," Mary told him. She could feel his adoration, just as intense as her own. She pressed another kiss to his lips. "Let's try and get some rest now."

Tom nodded as she slipped away. Mary climbed into the bed as Tom began undressing until he stood in his pants. The clothes were tossed to the floor, with no care to hang them up. Mary curled up on her side as Tom joined her in the bed. Already her eyelids had grown heavy and when he turned the lamp off, she was one step closer to sleep. She felt Tom kiss her forehead one last time before murmuring something that she didn't quite understand. His arms wrapped around her and she fell asleep, contented.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who left kudos and lovely comments! For anyone who is curious, I plan on updating every Sunday unless something comes up... and since something has already come up for tomorrow, I thought I would update today instead! I hope everyone is staying healthy and safe!

**Let You Live**

**Chapter Two**

Mary woke at dawn; unusually early for her. Tom was still asleep, a light stubble on his cheeks. _I love you,_ she thought, before leaving the warmth of his bed. After slipping her dress back on to the best of her ability (it was hard to get the damn zipper to go up all the way), Mary grabbed the basket from the table and began her trek back to the house.

Mary was unprepared to run into Jimmy, but she supposed it made sense. The valet seemed surprised to meet her but smiled anyway. "Good morning, Lady Mary," he called out, tipping his hat.

"Good morning, Kent," said Mary, grateful that she had at least done her dress up part of the way... though she wished she'd had a coat or something to cover up the exposed part just below her neck. She hadn't been expecting to run into anyone. Her cheeks were, no doubt, tinged pink.

There was a gleam in his eye. "Don't worry, milady," said Jimmy, offering her a smile. "I won't tell anyone I saw you. I promise."

"It's all right," she assured him, now somewhat flustered than before. "My father knows I was there last night. But I slept in the guest room," she added pointedly. She doubted Jimmy would announce it at the servant's hall at breakfast, but she was well aware that any knowledge that was his was also Thomas's. The butler has emphatically informed her that she did not need to divulge any " _details_ " to him regarding her and Tom's relationship, and she was afraid that Jimmy might illustrate a scandalous picture for him.

Jimmy nodded, with an, "I see." He wasn't stupid; Mary knew that he didn't buy her story for a minute. Nevertheless, nothing indecent had happened last night, and Mary knew she had no reason to feel ashamed. "How is Tom holding up, then?"

That's right— Tom and Jimmy had an unconventional master-servant relationship. Considering that Tom had managed ages without a valet, Mary suspected the dynamic was closer to a friendship that involved Jimmy performing the tasks of a valet in order to keep him employed at Downton. Mary's lips pressed into a thin line. "I'm not sure," she admitted. "If he can take his mind off of things, he's more himself, but when he remembers— well, he's so terribly melancholy."

Jimmy seemed to consider it. "I lost my mother as well," he told her. "It was long ago now, but I remember what it's like."

"I'm so sorry," Mary said. She couldn't help but be surprised by his candor— she didn't know Jimmy very well and they didn't have the same rapport she had with Anna or Thomas, but she supposed they had enough mutual friends in common for him to deem her worthy of being trusted. "How did it happen?"

"The Spanish Flu," Jimmy told her. His eyes were far away for a moment. "It was hard to watch. I know it might not feel that way to him but— well, he's lucky, in a way, that he didn't have to see it happen."

Mary nodded. She tried to imagine what it might be like, watching Mama or Papa in misery for an indeterminable amount of time. In a way, she could empathize with Jimmy; for a while, she had been convinced the same Flu would take Mama, not to say the least of Papa's episode in the dining room that one frightful evening. "I really am sorry," she told Jimmy again.

Jimmy shrugged. "Do you think Tom would mind? If I told him about my Mum?"

"It might," said Mary. "Though I might not tell him what you just said. I think he regrets not having a chance to say goodbye to her. It's been years since he last saw her and now he never will again." She paused. "You we're heading to see him now, weren't you?"

"I was. Just as I do everyday," said Jimmy. He tilted his head to the side. "Do you not want me to go there this morning, milady?"

Mary hesitated. "Not this morning, I think," she said. "He's sleeping now. I'll tell him to call the house, if he needs you."

"Very well, then, milady. I take it you're returning, then?"

Mary nodded. "I thought I would make breakfast for him and the children."

She could tell Jimmy was skeptical, but he seemed to approve. "That's a kind gesture. I'm sure he'll appreciate it." He stuck his hands in his pockets before turning around, walking back towards the house, this time joined by Mary. He looked as if he was trying not to smile. Mary wondered why until he remarked, "He must snore very loudly, for you to know he was still sleeping from the guest bedroom."

Mary glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. "Careful," she warned, though she couldn't help but smile, "you're dangerously close to being impertinent, Mr. Kent."

"Sorry, milady," he replied quickly, though he didn't sound sorry at all— in fact, he was rather amused. Truthfully, Mary didn't blame him.

* * *

Tom awoke to an empty bed and the smell of something burning. Mary was gone, her side of the bed cold. He rose to his feet immediately, fearing the worst. He tore open Sybbie's door, finding the room empty before running down the stairs in just his pants.

Grey smoke filled the room, even as Mary opened up the windows, coughing as she did so. George and Sybbie were laughing hysterically as she tried to fan the it out of the window. When Sybbie spotted him, she laughed even harder. "Daddy, why aren't you dressed?"

"I thought the house was on fire," he said, eyeing the stove. Four charred black bricks that Tom suspected were once pieces of bread sat there, appearing to be the source of the calamity.

"I'm sorry," said Mary, looking overwhelmed. There was a thin sheen of sweat on her forehead, cheeks rosy. "I was trying to surprise you with breakfast—"

It was then that Tom noticed the pan of scrambled eggs sitting on the table, cooked to perfection. He walked across the room, silencing her with a kiss. He ignored George and Sybbie, who were currently chorusing " _Ew!_ " in unison. "Thank you," he told her, touched. "This is wonderful. Truly."

Mary seemed less overwhelmed but still somewhat rattled. "It'll have to be just the eggs, I'm afraid," she told him. "As you can see... the rest of it didn't go to plan."

Tom kissed her temple. "I don't mind. Though maybe we can buy a toaster," he suggested, "in future." As he said it, he couldn't help but picture it. Waking up in the early hours of the morning to surprise the children, Mary reading a recipe aloud out of a cookbook as he whisked the ingredients together—

She smiled before leading him over to the table with a hand on his elbow. As they ate, Tom remarked, "I didn't know you knew how to make eggs."

"Matthew taught me," she told him. "On our honeymoon." She stabbed at a bit of egg before saying, "I was actually telling the children the story when I burnt the toast."

Tom could tell she was still embarrassed by the mishap. "Don't feel badly, love. When I started cooking on my own, I was burning water." It was a bit of an exaggeration— during the earliest days of service, at Lady Langdon's, he'd failed miserably when trying to recreate some of Mam's more ambitious recipes. He lost track of time easily, paging through his political pamphlets, only to discover a burnt dinner in the oven. He hadn't made the mistake again.

The edges of her lips twitched but she didn't smile quite yet. "How old were you when that happened?"

Tom thought back. "I was in my early twenties," he finally determined. A boy more than man— though, really, when he thought about it, it had taken ages for him to finally grow up. Even after marrying Sybil, he'd had his moments of foolishness. Tom figured he owed a great deal of his maturation to Sybbie, when he realized she needed someone to rely on.

"I'm thirty five, Tom." Mary turned back to her eggs. "It's a little embarrassing to be burning food at my age."

Tom shook his head. "It's not embarrassing. Not when you aren't given many chances to practice." He ate some of the eggs before turning to her and proclaiming, "These are the best scrambled eggs I've ever had."

Mary shook her head, smiling. "You're lying."

"I'm not," he insisted. He ate more before saying, "I could eat these every single day."

Mary rolled her eyes at him, but he could tell she was flattered.

* * *

The remainder of the morning was spent lazily. Sybbie and George played upstairs while Mary and Tom remained downstairs, relaxing. Mary did everything in her power to keep Tom's mind off things, especially when he seemed in high spirits, but she found herself constantly interrupted by Papa.

"It's for you," Tom said, after answering the first time, holding the phone out.

Mary bit back a sigh as she pulled herself off the couch. She crossed the living room, taking the phone from him. "Hello?"

"Mary? Are you still at Tom's?" Papa asked.

"Obviously," she answered, unable to refrain from rolling her eyes. She was answering his telephone, after all! "What's going on?"

"I was wondering if you were still there."

"Well, I am." This was starting to become rather tedious. "I woke up early this morning to get changed and make some breakfast for the four of us."

"Since when did you learn how to cook?"

"Since Matthew taught me," she replied, glancing over to Tom. He seemed rather amused... "Anyway, is that all?"

"Not quite. I gather Jame— Kent hasn't been down yet." There was a pause before he added, "I hope Tom is fully dressed."

"Of course he is," she told him cheerily whilst admiring Tom's bare chest. "Tom knows how to dress himself, Papa, he's been doing it for years now. He'll survive a day without Jimmy if he has to." She arched an eyebrow. "Should I be concerned about your preoccupation with his state of dress?"

"Very funny, Mary," Papa said dryly.

"Is that all, then?"

"I suppose," Papa said wearily.

 _Good._ "I'll see you later, then. Goodbye."

Papa bid his farewells before hanging up. Mary was ready to clarify what was said when she realized Tom had disappeared. She frowned, before returning to the couch, figuring he would be back soon.

When Tom appeared once again, he was as fully dressed as Mary had claimed he was. "I didn't want to tempt fate," Tom explained when she raised her eyebrows. "I wouldn't put it past your father to walk down and pay us a visit."

"He didn't bother coming to check to make sure I was in the guest bed," she pointed out, though she supposed he was right. It was better to be safe than sorry. He joined her on the sofa again.

However, not even a half hour later, the shrill ring of the telephone once again interrupted their conversation. "I'll get it," she told Tom as they both rose to their feet. "It's probably Papa. _Again_."

Tom let out a laugh and Mary realized she probably sounded like a sulking teenager. Nevertheless, she spared him a smile before walking over to the telephone. "Hello?"

"Mary?" It was Papa, as she had predicted.

Mary held back a sigh. "Yes. What is it now?"

"You and Tom must head up to the house immediately. I just spoke with Shrimpie."

Her mouth fell open. "Is it good news?" She asked, daring to hope.

"You'll have to walk up to the house to find out," said Papa, sounding pleased with himself. Mary didn't find the humor in the situation. "You might as well bring the children, too."

"Alright. We'll see you shortly." She hung up the phone before turning to Tom. He was still on the couch, head craned over his shoulder. "Papa's summoned us to the house. He's had a call from Shrimpie."

* * *

Tom was silent. Mary stared at Papa in disbelief. She couldn't believe what she had just heard. "You mean... Tom could have gone back to Ireland this whole time?"

"Not the whole time, no," Papa said, glancing back and forth between them, hands folded in front. "If he had gone back before Ireland won its independence, he would have been imprisoned. But now..." Papa trailed off, focusing on Tom now, "It seems as though you are free to return."

Mary's eyes fell on Tom as well. Instead of relief, she saw dismay. "So," he croaked, once he finally regained his sense of speech, "I could have visited her? I could have gone home to be with her?"

Mary glanced over at Papa. _Don't say it,_ she thought, silently willing him to do anything but confirm Tom's suspicions. It would only make him feel worse than he already did. But Papa let out a weary sigh before uttering, "It seems so, yes."

Mary closed her eyes as Tom buried his face in his hands. "Oh, _God_." His voice broke. She glared at Papa before moving from her seat to the floor, kneeling at Tom's side.

"Don't worry about all that now," she murmured, letting one hand rest on his knee. She didn't care that Papa was in the room— all that mattered is that Tom knew he was loved. "The point is that you can go to Ireland. You can go to her funeral and have a sense of closure."

Tom removed his hands from his face, looking defeated. "I wish I'd never done it," he finally rasped out, "I wish I'd never gone with them to light that stupid place on fire— all of this could have been avoided all, all of it—"

"You don't know that," Papa interjected. "And I seriously doubt you could have saved your mother had you been in Ireland, Tom. These things happen."

Mary, however, was caught up on what he said. _All of this could have been avoided._ What exactly was he speaking of? Obviously he regretted being banned from Ireland in the first place, but she wondered if he regretted more than just that. If Tom had never come to live at Downton, she doubted they would have become as close of friends as they had... let alone fall in love. They would have a polite albeit somewhat strained relationship at best, kept an ocean apart. Perhaps they would send letters to one another, _I hope you are doing well_ with amusing anecdotes about the children... Sybil might even be alive, if it weren't for the interference of Sir Philip Tapsell. _Of course that's not what he means,_ she told herself, fairly certain she was letting her imagination run away with her, but it was hard to know.

Tom shook his head, lost in his own world. It was if he wasn't hearing them. "I made a mess of things," he said, shaking his head. He covered his face yet again and Mary knew he was crying.

Tom wasn't like them; he wasn't afraid to show his emotions, no matter how messy they were. Nevertheless, Mary felt he deserved some privacy. She glanced over her shoulder to look at Papa, who was standing there uncomfortably, looking lost and uncertain. "I think it would be best if you left us alone for a while now," she told him, seeing it as a perfect solution.

"Perhaps you are right," he said, though he looked relieved. Papa hesitated, looking as if he wanted to say something, before deciding against it. Mary didn't watch him as he left, Tom her sole focus. The door clicked as he exited.

Once she was certain he was gone, Mary reached for Tom's hands. It took hardly any effort to remove them from his face. She felt as though her heart was breaking... she brought one of his hands to her lips. "You made a mistake a long time ago, my darling. There's no need to keep punishing yourself for it." She'd done the same to herself many times and it had never amounted to anything. "Please don't be so hard on yourself... this is good news." She reached up, weaving her fingers through his thick hair.

It was a minute or so before Tom composed himself. "I'm sorry," he said, wiping his eyes. "I seem to be doing this rather often. I'm sure you must be sick of it by now."

"Of course not," Mary immediately assured him, moving to sit beside him again. "I just hate seeing you like this. I wish I could take it all away."

Tom managed a weak, insincere smile. "You help," he told her, voice still rough. "I don't know where I'd be without you."

The words caused Mary to smile in spite of everything. "I'm sure you're managing far better than I would if I were in your shoes," she said, trying not to think too carefully about what she was saying. Losing either Mama or Papa was incomprehensible to her.

Tom shook his, reaching for her hands. "Will you go with me? To Ireland?" _To the funeral_ was the unspoken request.

"Of course," she replied, not thinking twice. "And we can take the children, and Jimmy—"

"No," he interrupted, rendering her silent. "It's not that— I only want you with me." She blinked slowly. "I don't want Sybbie to have to go through all that, not yet and not when she never had a chance to know Mam— the same for George. And I don't need a valet to come with me... but I do need you."

Mary stared at him in amazement. It was such a simple request, to accompany him home, yet it meant so much. "I'll be there," she promised. Then, with more conviction, "I'll always be there for you."

* * *

They needed to pack with haste. Tickets had already been purchased for the following morning but they weren't expected to reach Liverpool until evening.

Tom watched numbly on the side of the room as Jimmy packed his suitcases. "You must be looking forward to going home," said Jimmy, glancing up from his task.

"I am," Tom said, setting aside his guilt for the time being. It made sense now, with Irish independence, that he should be allowed to return, but in a way it was easier when he knew he couldn't. If he had known home was only a ferry ride away, he might have gone there instead of America... Sybbie could have met Mam, he could have spoken to her one last time, given her a real goodbye instead of a hastily scribbled letter that he had passed onto Sybil before fleeing the country, he could have had a chance to tell her how much he loved her and appreciated all she had done and sacrificed for him...

But now that would never happen.

Jimmy was quiet, folding up Tom's clothes with precision. Then, he said, "I know what you're going through. In a way." He stopped with his task before turning to Tom. "I lost my Mum... well, actually, I've lost both my parents. And it was hard for me as well."

"I'm sorry," said Tom, a bit surprised by Jimmy's honesty. Though he considered the man a friend, he'd never really disclosed any substantial details about his past. They mostly joked with one another and swapped stories from their respective youths, but Tom wasn't embarrassed at all to be candid about how he felt for Mary. Jimmy, however, never spoke to Tom about romance or girls... or Thomas.

"I'm sorry for you," Jimmy told him, almost amused but Tom saw the sadness in his eyes.

Tom didn't want to ask how it happened or anything about it— he didn't want to upset him any further and truthfully, Tom didn't want to dwell on it, either. "Were you with her? When it happened?"

Jimmy nodded. "Dad was gone by that point," he said, now studying Tom's bedspread. "I was the only one around to take care of her."

"That must have been hard," said Tom, though he envied the man in a way. "Still... at least she knew you loved her. Not everyone would do that for their mothers."

"You're right," agreed Jimmy, before glancing up. "But I'm sure your mother knew you loved her, too."

It was as if Jimmy had read his mind. Tom looked down at the hardwood floor, trying to reign in his tears. It was as if he couldn't stop crying these days... "I haven't seen her in years," he managed to choke out, astonished at the way his voice didn't even tremble. "I— The last time I saw her, we— Sybil and I— we had dinner at her house. She told me— she told me to stay out of trouble. She was only joking, but... well, then—"

The fire that had engulfed that stately manor was still as clear in his mind as it had been when he stood upon that hill with his cheering friends. He still felt that sense of loss deep in his chest that he had felt that night as he watched the family flee their home, huddled together in the dark night, visible only due to the orange glow of the flames. He'd known implicitly that he too would lose his home the moment the match was lit.

It was a study hand clapping his arm that drew him out of his thoughts. Jimmy was standing before him, looking concerned and conflicted. "Are you alright?" He asked.

Tom blinked. "I'm fine." _Or I will be,_ he thought. He had to be.

* * *

Dublin was dark by the time the ferry arrived in the harbor. Tom had sat out on the deck, staring across the choppy, grey waves, wondering how much his homeland had changed. He wasn't naïve enough to think everything was the same but he still hoped some part of it would be recognizable to him after nearly six years.

Mary had sat by his side the whole time, lacing their fingers together. Her presence was a balm that soothed his soul. He was so glad to have her by his side— there was no one in his life that he trusted more than her.

Night fell and a drizzle of rain came from the heavens. Still, Tom was rooted to his spot. All he could think about, at present, was how he was missing the wake. He was kicking himself mentally— if only he had known he was able to come home!

"Don't you want to go inside?" murmured Mary into his ear after a minute or so after the rain began. "It's cold."

"You go in. I'll be fine." With each second that passed, he was closer and closer to Ireland.

"I'm not leaving you," she insisted, and she remained by his side the rest of the journey.

By the time they reached Dublin, the night's sky seemed hellbent on soaking up any light. They were able to rent a car and Tom loaded the suitcases in the back. Mary, he realized, was drenched from head to toe, her teeth chattering even as she valiantly tried not to let her discomfort show. "I'm fine," she told him as she climbed into the passenger's side.

Tom felt guilty, knowing that she was probably freezing. The night's air was far from temperate and she was soaked to the bone. It was why he asked, in a hushed voice to the blond man behind the desk at the car rental where some of the nicer hotels in the city were. He had received a dubious look before the man suggested Wynn's Hotel.

"Is it still there?" He was taken aback. The place had been bombed during the Easter Rising and the last he knew, they had been in the process of rebuilding.

The blond let out a laugh. "How long have you been away?"

"Too long," Tom told him, shame burning deep in the back of his throat. Knowing that he could have been here years ago made him feel sick to his stomach. He might have been able to visit Mam one last time, might have come back here instead of going all the way to America. Still, he took the keys from the man and said, "Thank you," before rejoining Mary.

The rain and the darkness made it impossible to seek out distinguishable features of the city. The street lamps did no good, not with the rain. The windshield wipers worked overtime as Tom navigated him through the streets, searching for something besides the names to help him identify where he was as they crossed over the river.

Before long, he had found the newly rebuilt Wynn's Hotel, a banner outside proclaiming their grand reopening whipping in the fierce wind. Tom hoped they weren't full—Mary needed to get warm and fast. This car wasn't nearly enough

"There's no need for all of that," she insisted as he grabbed both their suitcases. "I'm perfectly capable of carrying my own." Tom ignored her protests— carrying her suitcases was the least he could do after letting her freeze on the deck of the ferry.

Fortunately, for the them, there were still vacancies in the hotel. "We need two rooms," Tom instructed the clerk, recalling the promise they had made to Robert shortly before leaving. He had been apprehensive about the idea of them traveling together whilst unmarried and had only agreed not to put up a fuss if they agreed to be in separate rooms.

"But preferably as close to each other as possible," Mary spoke up.

"Rooms 333 and 335 are open," the clerk told them, and soon Tom was handing over the money for three nights. Tom carried the luggage, insisting they didn't need a bellhop, and Mary placed the keys in her pocket.

When they reached Room 333, Tom carried Mary's suitcase over to the cushioned bench at the end of her bed. "Does this work?" He asked, watching as water bled through the fabric, darkening it.

"Yes," she murmured, "it's more than alright. Thank you, darling."

Tom nodded, surveying the room. The walls were covered with green wall paper and thin white curtains partitioned them from the window. There was a fireplace on one end, already lit and making the room pleasantly warm. He suspected his room would be near identical to this one and that it would be the nicest room he'd ever stayed in while in this country.

"I'll go to my room now," he told her, turning to face her. Her dark blue dress was closer to navy now and dripping onto the rug. He stepped over to her, kissing her once, gently. "Goodnight, love."

"Goodnight?" Mary arched an eyebrow. "I'm not going to bed yet. I'm going to help you." His key in her hand, she marched out of the room with energy he didn't realize she would possess after their long journey.

Confused, Tom followed after her, only stopping to lock her room out. "Mary, what—?" He asked, staggering into his room. He only registered the sound of running water a few minutes later before Mary stepped out of his bathroom. Though he wouldn't exactly describe the look on her face as a smile, per say, it was hard to find another word that described it so aptly. Mary strode over to him, closed the door behind him, and began undoing his tie. She let it fall to the floor once it was loose before pushing his jacket off his shoulders. Once that too was in an inelegant heap, her fingers worked their way to the buttons of his vest. He found himself silent, rooted to the spot, transfixed by her.

By the time he felt her fingertips touching the skin on his chest as she maneuvered the buttons on his shirt, Tom finally regained the ability to speak and to move. "Mary," he began, capturing her cold hands in his own, "I love you, but I— Not tonight, my darlin'."

It took her a moment to register what he was saying before she flushed. "Oh, Tom— that's not what I was doing. Not at all." She looked up into his eyes. "I was just drawing you a bath. You look so cold and I— I wanted to help however I could."

Tom felt simultaneous embarrassment for making that presumption as well as a wave of unbridled affection. "You didn't need to do that," he murmured.

"I know," she said, working on the buttons of his shirt yet again. "But I wanted to." There was still a pink tinge to her cheeks and Tom cursed himself. He couldn't believe his mind had gone to the gutter like that— especially when it made perfect sense, what with the water running in the bathroom. He welcomed the ever present brush of her fingertips against his skin as she undid each button, savoring each touch from her. It soothed him, driving away all the desolation from his mind.

After his shirt joined his other clothes on the floor, Mary hesitated, hands poised in the air as her gaze fell to his belt and trousers. He wondered what she would do until they dropped to her side. "I trust you can take care of the rest yourself?" she asked, glancing up at him through her eyelashes.

Rendered speechless, the only thing he could do was nod. She gave him a small smile before leaning in to kiss him, her hands resting on his bare chest. For a minute all that existed in the world was the two of them— just as there always was whenever their lips met. But reality returned once she pulled back. "Goodnight, darling," she whispered, even though they were the only two souls in the room. "Take your bath, and try to get some rest. You'll need it for tomorrow."

Tom nodded numbly, missing her touch as she withdrew and walked to the door. A part of him desperately wanted her to stay, just to keep him company and stop him imagining the hell tomorrow would bring, but he knew that would be selfish. She needed a bath herself and plenty of sleep. He watched go before turning back to the emptiness of the room.

The bath was nice— the water was the perfect temperature when he submerged himself inside it. His muscles, which had been tense since they set foot on dry land, relaxed ever so slightly. He washed himself off, mentally reminding himself to thank Mary for thinking of it.

He pulled on a clean pair of pajamas before settling down at the empty bed. He'd slept terribly the night before and today's journey had been long... by all accounts, he should sleep easily tonight. But Tom knew, even before he turned the light out, that it was just the beginning of an arduous, restless night. The night Mary had shared his bed, the same day he had learned about Mam, had been the last good night's of sleep he had received. Her presence lulled him like nothing else. He wished she were here now... Mary, here beside him, was the thing he wished for the most right now, aside from being able to magically bring Mam back.

He knew that he hadn't been much fun during the trip over, which made him feel all the worse. Mary was traveling with him to an unfamiliar country with only him to rely on, and he hadn't even begun preparing her for what was to come. The truth was that Tom was terrified. He worried waking up tomorrow and not recognize the city where he had come into his adolescence and adulthood. Ireland had changed without him and in the years since its independence, he had spent it maintaining an estate for a noble English family. His younger self would have abhorred the idea...

But Tom was willing to admit he might have been wrong in the past. The Crawleys weren't the villains he had thought they were all those years ago, and they weren't saints, either... They were just as human as he was.

Still, Tom didn't count on anyone else to understand it. He had been far from home, stranded from everyone he loved (save for his daughter) and surrounded by the people who used to drive around. After losing Sybil, he had truly been alone. To him, it seemed natural that he had come to rely on the Crawleys. They had become his family in a short time, helping him with Sybbie and coming to respect his thoughts and opinions. They listened to him, took an interest in what he was doing, whether it be with his shop or the estate. How could he hate them, when they had helped keep him afloat? He closed his eyes, seeking out sleep but aware that it was unlikely.

* * *

Surprisingly (or perhaps not so surprisingly), Mary was awake before Tom the following morning. Shortly before the sun began to rise, he had slipped away into unconsciousness. Three hours later, he heard the knock on his door. He didn't respond, trying to figure out what the noise was he blinked blearily. "Tom? Are you alright? It's Mary."

"Come in," he groaned.

She stepped into the room, wearing a black dress he recognized from her days of mourning Matthew, a pair of black lace gloves, and a large hat with a veil. She closed the door behind her, eyes full of concern. "You look so tired."

"I'm afraid I rather am," he admitted as she sat by him in the bed. He wished he could tug her down by his side so they could sleep the day away and ignore what was happening... but he knew he couldn't.

She reached out, a lace covered thumb rubbing his cheek. It chafed at his skin, a poor substitute for her smooth skin, but nevertheless Tom leaned into her hand, closing his eyes. Her lips met his and his hands immediately sought out her hips. For a moment, he forgot where he was.

When Mary pulled away, her hand reached for his as she tugged him up to his full height. She pressed another kiss to his lips before leaving him to walk over to his suitcase. Accepting his fate, Tom stripped off his pajamas with each article of clothing she handed to him. He didn't even protest when Mary did up his tie for him. When he caught a glimpse of the clock, he realized they likely would have no time for breakfast if they wanted to make it to the church on time.

The streets, Tom found, were as busy as he remembered them... which was, in its own way, a relief. Some of his anxieties ebbed away when he looked out and realized it the scene before him was nearly identical to that of the Dublin he'd left in 1920. He lead Mary over to their car. "Are we going to the same church you and Sybil were married in?" Mary asked as she closed the passenger's side door.

Tom nodded. "It's close to where we lived. We'd go there every Sunday." It was walking distance, really, from Mum's flat. After Tom had moved out and into his own flat, the walk was a bit further, but he normally made time for it. Sybil would go less often, seeing as she wasn't a member of the church and would sometimes work late night shifts at the hospital on Saturdays, but she would join him and Mam at least once a month.

Mary nodded as he started up the engine. She was silent for a while before she finally asked, "When did you move to Dublin? You told me you grew up in Bray, but..." she trailed off, a million other questions in her eyes.

Tom's gaze flickered to her. "Mam and I came here after Dad died." Thinking about it made a lump rise in his throat. "I was thirteen."

"Not Kieran?"

"No," Tom answered, making a right turn. "He got a job near Bath. He'd been planning on moving soon, anyway... the only reason he stayed as long as he did was so he could be there with Dad at the end." Three days after the funeral, Kieran had told him and Mam over breakfast that he had an interview for a job at a country estate in England driving cars for a baronet. Mam hadn't been enthusiastic about it but knew he needed to leave. Almost all his wages were sent home and before the month was over, he and Mam had packed up their belongings and moved to Dublin.

"That must have been hard," she murmured.

"It was," agreed Tom. He stole a glimpse at her when he made a stop at a corner. She wasn't looking at him, instead watching the pedestrian traffic on her side of the road. _I'm so glad you are here,_ he thought. "But things turned out all right in the end."

Tom ended up parking on the opposite side of the street from the church. The stone exterior stared back at him. The stained glass windows were as he remembered. He wasn't the same person who had last stepped into this church— more a boy than a man, really, even though he qualified as the latter in the eyes of the law. He'd been so naïve, so impulsive...

"Are you ready?"

Mary's voice startled him out of his nebulous thoughts. "I suppose so," he said after swallowing. Her gloved hand slipped into his as they crossed the street, running the last couple of feet to the sidewalk as a black car approached them.

Tom wasn't ready. Not really. But with Mary here, he could face it. Without hesitance, he approached the heavy oak doors.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for the lovely comments! I hope you enjoy this chapter, and I hope you all stay healthy and safe!

**Let You Live**

**Chapter Three**

The pews of the church were dotted by many familiar faces. Mrs. McGuire, Mam's best friend, who lived two doors down, was seated in the third pew, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. Uncle Niall was on the left-hand side up at the front, his brown hat in his lap, seated next to Aunt Siobhan. Kieran was up at the front with Aunt Nora, next to the casket, head bent down and shoulders heavy.

If it weren't for Mary's arm locked with his, Tom wasn't sure if he could make it down the aisle. He stared straight ahead, ignoring the rest of his family as he met his brother and aunt at the front of the church. He avoided looking into the open casket— _I'm not ready yet._

Upon seeing him, Aunt Nora's face lit up for the briefest of seconds. She looked so similar to Mam for a moment that Tom half imagined it was her. "Oh, Tommy!" She reached for the hand that wasn't near Mary's and squeezed it tightly. "Kieran said you were coming but I didn't dare believe it!" She examined him, head to toe before saying, "You've grown so much!"

"It's nice to see you again as well, Aunt Nora," Tom said, forcing a smile onto his face solely for her benefit. "Though I wish it were under better circumstances."

Aunt Nora shook her head. "Oh, give me a hug, why don't you?"

Mary's arm slipped out of his, allowing him to lean forward and hug his aunt. She had the same petite frame Mam'd had, along with her brown eyes. He closed his eyes, pretending for a moment it was his mother before drawing away. Aunt Nora beamed at him before suddenly noticing Mary. "And who is this?"

"Mary Crawley," Mary said before Tom had a chance. She stuck out her hand, covered by her black lace glove, for Aunt Nora to shake. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Oh, that's right. _Lady_ Mary." Aunt Nora glanced over at him. There was something almost frosty in her voice as she said, "I believe we met at Tommy's wedding to Sybil."

Mary handled it with ease. With no hesitation, "Just Mary, please. And I do apologize, I'm sure we must have. I'm afraid my memories of that day are quite hazy. I was rather distracted helping Sybil prepare."

"And that was some years ago, Aunt Nora," Tom added, wrapping an arm around Mary's waist to draw her close to him.

Aunt Nora's lips pressed into a thin line but she nodded and patted Tom on the arm. "The ceremony will start soon," she told him before turning to Mary to say, "It was nice to meet you again, Lady Mary."

Tom, who knew Mary better than most (perhaps better than anybody), was astonished by how little she betrayed her inner thoughts. The only thing that gave away her lack of contentment was the microscopic pursing of her lips for a split second before turning her attention to his brother. "How are you holding up, Kieran?" she asked, clearly concerned.

Kieran shrugged, glancing at Mam. "How is any man when he loses his mother?"

Mary slipped out of Tom's embrace to stand between the brothers, her hand resting on his arm. Tom remembered how she had used the same gesture with him while he grieved Sybil.

Tom finally let his gaze follow Kieran's. Man's eyes were closed, hands folded on her stomach. If he didn't know any better, he would have guessed she was sleeping... though she was far paler than he ever remembered her being. Tom staggered closer to his mother— she was older than her remembered her, her chestnut brown hair almost completely gray. There were lines on her face that hadn't been there the last time he'd set eyes on her— a reminder of all the tears she'd shed and the laughs she'd let out that he hadn't been there for. The mole on her cheek— her "beauty mark", as Dad had always called it— was still there. Tom remembered kissing it as a small boy.

He hadn't realized there were tears on his eyes until she felt something soft slip into his fingers. Tom looked down, finding a white and pink lace handkerchief in his hands. Mary was standing beside him, looking at his mother with a curious expression. Tom wiped his eyes with the handkerchief and the back of his hand. "Thanks," he whispered to her.

A hand slapped his back— not with any real force. A comforting gesture. "We'd better sit down now, Tommy," Kieran said behind him, and Tom allowed Mary to steer him over to the front row. Tom saw his cousin Nuala on the opposite side of the aisle, her brilliant copper hair covered by a hat. She wore a sad smile as she nodded to him, bouncing a chubby baby in a dark dress on her lap. She had red hair just like her mother. Two young boys, both with brown hair, were seated between her and her husband, Rian. One of the boys looked ahead, solemn, whereas the other stared at the floor, kicking his short legs on the air.

Kieran sat at the end of the pew, leaving Tom to be sandwiched between him and Mary. He didn't mind— he couldn't think of two people he would rather be beside. The priest, Father Michael, appeared Bible in his hands and approached the pulpit. As he opened his mouth to speak, his hand sought out Mary's. _Whatever you do,_ he thought, _please don't let go._

* * *

Kieran was the first one to toss a fistful of dirt into the grave, followed by Tom. He approached the edge, the bit of earth in his hands, and going under his fingernails. _Goodbye, Mam,_ he thought, watching as it collected atop the wooden coffin. _I love you._ He stared down for a moment longer before turning around, already seeking out his Mary, who was standing next to a nearby tree.

The procession continued, each member of his family walking over to pay respects. Tom watched on, feeling almost as if he was at the pictures. They were all in a separate world from his; a bird chirped somewhere over his head and the stench of the dirt was obliterated by Mary's fragrant perfume. He felt as if he was watching a bad dream unfold and that any minute now, he would wake up at Downton Abbey.

But Tom never woke up. It kept going on and on and on. Aunt Nora, Uncle Niall, Aunt Siobhan, Nuala, Rian... even Fiona, who had only been eight or nine years old when he and Sybil had left, looking almost exactly like Nuala at fifteen, standing at the edge of the grave.

Once it was all over, the funeral-goers continued to gather. Mrs. McGuire moved to speak with Aunt Nora, an elderly man with a wooden cane walking up to Uncle Niall with his hat in his hand. Tom was oblivious to the tall, brunette woman approaching him.

"Tom Branson? Is that you?"

Tom turned his head, astonished at who he saw. "Sinead," he said, taken aback. He couldn't remember the last time he had set eyes on her. "What a surprise."

Sinead smiled at him, the corners of her eyes crinkling as she did. She had changed since the last time Tom had seen her... though that was hardly a wonder since they had been teenagers. Her cheeks were no longer rounded, but they were still dotted by freckles. She had put on more weight, but considering how thin she had been when they were sixteen, it was a relief to know she was well taken care of now. A plain gold band glittered on her finger.

"I'm so sorry about your mother," Sinead told him, smile fading. "I just saw her last week— I ran into when I was taking my children for a walk. I couldn't believe it when I heard and I wanted to pay my respects."

"That's very kind of you," said Tom, still hardly believing this was happening. He hadn't thought about Sinead in years— he wondered how often she had thought about him.

It was just then that Sinead noticed Mary. "Is this your wife?" She asked him, smile returning.

"Not yet," Mary said before he had a chance, sticking out her hand. "Lady Mary Crawley."

"I'm Sinead Hamilton," she introduced. Her gaze flickered to Tom, "but I'm sure if you've heard of me, it'll've been when I was Sinead Murphy."

Tom braced himself for Mary's response, knowing his reflexes would be too slow to interject before she could say anything. Her brows furrowed before she said, "I'm afraid I don't recall you at all, by either name." She tilted her to the side. "How strange."

Sinead's smile went from pleasant to strained. Tom's tongue felt like it was made of lead. Suddenly Tom wished Sinead had come up in his conversations with Mary, if for nothing else than to warn her that Sinead had a sharp tongue and didn't back down easily. "Oh, I see. Well, Tom and I go way back," she said, reaching out to touch his arm. "We were quite close for a while, weren't we?"

_A while_ was a loose translation for a year. They had stared out as friends, attending the same school and living on the same block. Overtime, as adolescence approached, their feelings had begun to change into something more romantic. Their break-up had been tumultuous, as a nearly all endings were when one was a hormonal teenager, but Tom hadn't harbored any ill will for Sinead in quite some time. In fact, he had forgotten the sting of his first heartbreak long before he had arrived to Downton Abbey.

Without moving suddenly, Tom moved his arm out of her grasp before wrapping his other arm around Mary's shoulders. "You said something about children," he said, hoping to steer the conversation away from his turbulent youth.

Sinead's bright brown eyes lit up. "Oh yes," she said, beaming. "I've four of them— my oldest is sixteen— can you believe it?" She shook her head. "It seems like only yesterday we were that age."

Sinead wasn't making it easy for him. He felt Mary's shoulders tense under his arm ever so slightly. "How is your husband?" Tom asked, still attempting to move away from their shared past.

He instantly regretted it the moment he noticed the sadness in her eyes. Her hand reached to twist her ring. "My husband died during the war," she said, lowering her gaze.

"I'm sorry," he blurted out immediately. "I should have known better than to ask— we've lost our spouses as well."

Sinead glanced up, understanding. The fight had left her then. "I'm sorry. There's nothing as hard as that, is there?" Before either of them could reply, she asked, "Do either you have any children?"

"We have one each," Tom told her. For a split second, his thoughts drifted to Sybbie, and he wondered if he hadn't been wrong to not bring her. No one in his family, aside from Kieran, had ever met her. _There'll be plenty of time for that,_ he reminded himself. It was hard to remember he could come back.

"They help me get through it," Sinead told him honestly. "They're my last bit of him." There was a moment of silence before she seemed jerked from her trace. "It was nice seeing you again, Tom. Nice to meet you, Lady Mary." Before he had enough time to react, she was walking away, heading towards Nuala.

Tom's gaze flickered to Mary, afraid to see what expression she would be wearing, but instead finding her face perfectly blank. The mask had been erected. "Perhaps we had better move closer," he told her, nodding to where most of the attendees had congregated. "I see plenty of people over there who I really ought to say hello to."

Mary was silent for a moment. Tom worried she was angry before she said, quite softly, "Alright," and began walking to the crowd.

Tom said hello to dozens of familiar faces— Mrs. McGuire, Father Michael, an old friend from school who he hadn't recognized with the thick mustache, his cousin Seamus Branson who had traveled from Bray. He introduced them to Mary, who warmed up to each of them. The only one who had known about her was Mrs. McGuire, who was delighted to meet the girl " _who made Niamh's son so happy_ ".

"Did Mam really say that?" Tom asked, blinking to suppress the tears he felt forming, only this time he smiled.

"Oh, of course!" Mrs. McGuire beamed. "She was always thinking of you, m'boy. Always worried that family was treating you right, wondering if you really were happy."

"I am," he told her honestly, letting his thumb ghost over Mary's knuckles. The lace was nothing compared to the softness of the skin, but he knew she could feel him regardless. "Don't worry about that."

The more daunting task was introducing Mary to everyone else on Mam's side of the family. Uncle Niall and Aunt Siobhan had a warm reception (well, more from Aunt Siobhan, who did most of the talking between the two of them anyway), thanking Mary for looking after him. "Where did you two meet?"

"At Downton," Tom said, trying to keep it as vague as possible... before remembering there was nothing to be ashamed of. Sybil wouldn't want him to conceal the truth— and it wasn't fair to Mary to conceal the way they fell in love, not when it was such a beautiful story in its own right. "Mary is Sybil's oldest sister."

Mary stiffened beside him as a myriad of expressions crossed over their faces. Aunt Siobhan, never one to shy from a conversation, was rendered speechless, blinking at them. Uncle Niall looked as though he had swallowed a lemon. "Oh. I see," Aunt Siobhan finally uttered, the timbre of her voice soaring to astronomic levels. "Excuse us— nice to see you again, Tommy," before walking away.

Tom couldn't help but be disappointed. Man mustn't have gotten around to telling them— that, or she had carefully skirted the issue of just who Mary was.

"You don't have to tell them," muttered Mary, watching them as they weaved through the crowd of people.

"I don't like lying."

"It's not a lie," she protested, holding his hand. "We did meet at Downton."

It didn't sit right with Tom. "You aren't embarrassed of us, are you?" He knew it was controversial— a man being with the sister of his dead wife— but Mary was more than just that to him. She was ally, his partner in the estate, the one maternal figure his daughter had ever known, and his best friend. His love for her had nothing to do with Sybil, aside from the love they still shared for her.

"God, no!" The exclamation left her lips instantly— her lips were parted, and she stared at him in astonishment. He could hear what she was thinking: _How could you ask me that?_ Before he could explain anything, he heard someone approach him from behind. Mary looked at whoever was behind him, so Tom turned around slowly.

Nuala stood behind him. "Hello, Tom," she said, voice still soft and lilting. "Mam wanted me to let you know that you and Lady Mary are invited for dinner tonight."

Tom glanced over at Mary, silently seeking her approval. She nodded her head, almost imperceptibly, and he replied, "Thank you, Nuala. Tell her we'd love to come." He paused a moment, straining his memory, before asking, "Let me introduce you properly. Mary, this is my cousin, Nuala. Nuala, meet Mary."

"It's so nice to meet you," said Mary, holding out a hand for her to shake.

Nuala seemed hesitant but took it. "It's nice to meet you, too." She turned to Tom and said, "See you later at dinner, Tom." Without another word, she was walking away, rejoining her parents, who were currently fussing over Fiona.

Tom glanced over at Mary. He knew she had agreed, but he couldn't help but wonder. "You don't mind, do you?"

"Of course not," she said, resting one of her hands on the inside of his arm. "I'm looking forward to getting to know them better." She gave him an encouraging smile, and Tom knew she was being honest.

* * *

Aunt Nora's flat wasn't exactly spacious, but the family was able to find room there. Uncle Niall and Aunt Siobhan has already left for home, back to the farm in Galway. Tom and Mary were seated on the sofa, balancing the plates on their laps. Fiona, who had taken a shine to Mary, was seated on the opposite side of her.

"I'm going to Mam's flat tomorrow," Kieran told him, stabbing at a piece of ham on his plate. "Will you be coming, Tommy?"

"Of course," Tom replied. He turned back to his plate; it had been years since he'd ate a meal like this. Boiled ham with colcannon had always been a staple in the Branson household. Aunt Nora made it the same way as Mam, reminding Tom of simpler times.

"Don't you like the food, Mary?" Aunt Nora called out from the kitchen table where she sat with Uncle Callum, Nuala, and Rian, and their baby. The two little boys, Conner and Aiden, had finished up by now and were playing in another room.

Tom's gaze flickered over to Mary, who was trying to cut her ham into smaller pieces. Most of the food was still on her plate. She glanced up, one of her polite smiles on her face before saying, "Oh, yes. It's absolutely delicious," before turning back to her task at hand.

"It's one of Tom's favorites," Aunt Nora said, almost proudly, before seeking him out with her eyes. "Isn't that right?"

Tom felt Mary's eyes before he glanced over to look at her. A small smile was on her lips, almost a question: _Is it?_ "It is," he confirmed, more to her than Aunt Nora.

Aunt Nora seemed content. "I bet you don't eat this very often at Downton Abbey, do you?" She asked, arching an eyebrow.

Tom's gaze flickered over to Mary, almost dreading her reaction. She didn't take kindly to slights about her beloved home... but the only trace of irritation he was able to detect was the ever so slight tightening of her lips before she ate a forkful of colcannon. "Mrs. Patmore is a very good cook, Aunt Nora," Tom spoke up, feeling as though he ought to defend the place that had become his home. He glanced at his brother. "Kieran's been over a few times and he's never had any complaints."

Kieran, realizing Tom wanted to speak up for him, nodded. "The food was good," he agreed. "They didn't have any beer the last time I was there, though."

"Remind me to tell Mama to order some when we get home," Mary piped up. "We always want to make sure our guests are well taken care of." She was so genuine about it, determined to set things right... but Tom caught Nuala rolling her eyes out in the kitchen.

He averted his eyes to his plate. He hadn't exactly expected things to be smooth sailing with Mary— in fact, when he had come to Downton, Kieran had made his displeasure known. When Mary was out of earshot, his brother had approached him, muttering, "Did you really have to fall for the poshest one, Tommy?" with a roll of his eyes.

It had taken all his self-restraint not to cause a scene. "You don't know her like I do," Tom had told him through gritted teeth. "If you give her a chance, you'll see there's a lot more to her than she lets on. And," he added, grip on his glass tightening, "I want you to know right now that I won't allow you to speak poorly of her or treat her badly. She's one of the most important people in this world to me."

Kieran has appraised him with a curious look before taking a drink from his bottle of beer and nodding. Since then, he had noticed a distinct effort from his brother to treat Mary with respect. Their relationship wasn't exactly a warm one, but any sharp edges had been softened. They asked after one another politely and when Kieran came to dinner, he made a point of conversing civilly with her.

But it seemed as if the rest of his family had made up his mind about Mary before knowing her. It may have been idealistic, but he had hoped bringing Mary to Ireland wouldn't be a source of friction. With Sybil, the Crawleys had been aghast and horrified by the idea of Tom supposedly seducing their youngest. Mam had thought they were foolish, but after actually meeting his bride, she had warmed up considerably. It wasn't surprising; it was hard not to love Sybil. The rest of his family had followed suit, admiring how Sybil had been willing to embrace a new life with Tom and be free of the British. Though it had taken her awhile to acclimate to her new way of life, she had a sense of humor and hadn't been afraid to ask them for advice on how to complete the tasks they deemed ordinary.

However, with Mary, it seemed there had been a role reversal. Robert and Cora had been shocked at first but had come around easily enough— and, regretfully, his family was the one making thinking uncomfortable.

The atmosphere here reminded him of Downton in those early days, when he was an interloper intruding on this intimate family setting. The Crawleys had been nothing more than people he drove around and characters in Sybil'a stories, then suddenly they were the people across the table from him, making a fuss about his clothes and his politics and his religion. It wasn't the same, not for Mary, but he knew all too well what it was like to be made unwelcome by the family of someone you loved... and it wasn't what he wanted for her.

Tom glanced over at Mary. He had no doubt she sensed their hostility but he didn't want to make a scene so shortly after his mother's funeral. Mam wouldn't want him to stand up and scold her only sister... nor, Tom was certain, would she want her sister and her family to alienate the woman her son loved... not if what she had told Mrs. McGuire was anything to go by.

Once dinner was finished, Uncle Callum and Rian headed for the door. "We're going to the children to the park," said Rian as his two boys jumped up and down excitedly. "Want to come with us, Fi?" he asked, sounding almost hopeful.

Tom wondered if anyone had told Fiona the truth yet. Based on what he had observed in the interactions between everyone tonight, he suspected they hadn't.

"No thanks," said Fiona, nonplussed, before turning back to Mary.

Uncle Callum let out a grumble. "Don't Lady Mary's ear off the whole night. You've better things to do," he told her in Irish, hand resting on the door knob. Beside him, Mary was frowning, uncertain as to what was being said. He turned to Kieran and Tom. "D'you two want to come with us?"

"No," Tom said pointedly in English before Kieran had a chance to reply. "But thank you."

Without saying much of anything else, Callum and Rian left with the boys, leaving them behind with the women. Tom waited a few minutes, after Nuala and Aunt Nora had gathered up the dishes, when he knew Mary was distracted by Fiona, to take his brother aside. "Do you mind making sure Mary doesn't go into the kitchen for a few minutes?" he asked quietly as Nora and Nuala disappeared into kitchen.

Kieran studied Tom carefully. "I can," he said. "But I wouldn't if I were you."

"What am I supposed to do?" Tom demanded. "Sit by and let them treat her badly?"

"They haven't been treating her badly," Kieran insisted, crossing his arms over his chest. "You are just overly sensitive when it comes to her."

"She can tell they don't like her."

"So? When was it a crime to dislike someone?" Kieran was undoubtedly annoyed. "I don't know Mary that well, but even I know she's not the sort to fall to pieces just because someone doesn't like her. She's stronger than that. Let it go."

Tom sucked in a deep breath. He saw where Kieran was coming from and he knew Mary's resilience better than anyone else... but hated everything about this. They were trying to make her feel not accepted, like he had. It wasn't right when the Crawleys had done it to him and it wasn't right now. Besides, Tom knew it was affecting her more than she would ever admit. "She was looking forward to meeting everyone. The least they could do is give her a chance, just as you have. She doesn't deserve these little jabs here and there." He felt as if he were speaking to a brick wall; Tom knew his brother still didn't agree. "If you ever fall in love with someone, maybe you'll understand how terrible it is to watch your own family be rude to them," he all but spat, before stalking away. He didn't want to stick around and see the look on Kieran's face.

* * *

"Do you like it in Yorkshire?"

"Very much," Mary confirmed. "It's beautiful. There's nothing quite like it."

Fiona beamed. Even though Nuala and her husband Rian were the two people in this flat closest to her age, the only person who had enthusiastically made conversation with her was Fiona, Callum and Nora's youngest. She was fourteen years old ("But I'm almost fifteen," she had been sure to tell Mary) and a regular chatterbox— in the best possible way. She looked almost exactly like her older sister Nuala— pin-straight red hair, smatterings of freckles across her nose and cheeks, the same oval face and willowy build. Through her, she had discovered Nora and Callum had two older sons, both of whom lived too far away to attend the funeral. "Is it better than living in a city?"

"I think so," Mary told her. "But then again, I'm probably biased because it's my home. But I do like being in the city— there's always something to do. When I was younger, it seemed like there was nothing to do." These days it always felt as though there was something. Between the roof, the farmers, and the children, Mary always felt as though she was busy.

"I've never lived in the country before," said Fiona with a sigh. "Well, that's not true. I did, when I was a little girl. But I don't remember it at all."

"It's quieter," said Mary, noticing just then that Kieran had stepped closer to them... but no Tom. Still, she tried not to be bothered— she had her other ally close by. "And there's plenty of places to ride."

Fiona's eyebrows shot up. "Ride? Like a horse?" Mary nodded. "You ride a horse?" When Mary confirmed it, she said, "I didn't realize people still did that for fun. I thought that only happened in books."

"I hope you aren't calling me old," said Mary, arching one eyebrow teasingly before causing Fiona to burst into giggles and insist that it wasn't what she meant. "I don't ride as often as I once did, now that I have a job to occupy my time, but every once in a while I do."

Fiona seemed to think about it. "Did Sybil like riding horses, too?" she asked innocently.

_Sybil._ "She did. Not as much as me, though," said Mary, giving her a curious look. "Did you know Sybil, then?" As soon as the words left her mouth, she felt silly. Of course she was bound to have known Sybil... sometimes it felt like decades had passed since her death instead of a mere five years... almost six, she reminded herself. The anniversary was rapidly approaching along with Sybbie's birthday.

Fiona didn't seem to think her question was stupid as she nodded. "She was always so nice to me. I loved visiting Aunt Niamh because she was almost always there. She was always so nice to me. She would play games with me and tell me all these stories..."

Mary smiled. "Sybil was nice to everyone. That was her gift."

Mary wondered then, how all the rest of these people had felt about Sybil. She wished she had paid more attention now when her sister would speak about Tom's family— if she had, maybe she could have learned what not to do and which things would guarantee their approval. If Sybil were here, what advice would she give?

Mary almost shook her head. If Sybil were here, Mary certainly wouldn't be. Mary would be home at Downton, knowing who knows what while Sybil sat here, chatting with Fiona and not angering Tom's family.

"Fi," Nuala called out from the kitchen, "Come and help us!"

Fiona looked exasperated but rose to her feet. She rolled her eyes before huffing, rather sarcastically, "Coming, _Mam_." Mary was oblivious to the way Kieran flinched beside her. She turned, looking imploringly. "Will you come with me, Mary? I need someone to keep me sane."

Mary was about to agree when Kieran interrupted with, "I need to talk with Mary for a moment. Go help your Mam and sister."

This time Fiona groaned. "Don't worry," Mary insisted, giving the young girl an encouraging look. "I'll be out in a minute or so." This seemed to placate her and she made her way to the kitchen with fewer protestations than before. Mary turned to Kieran. "What is it you wished to discuss?"

An expression almost akin to panic came across Kieran's face. Mary began to wonder if something was horribly wrong— or, God forbid, he was about to tear her to strips and tell her how little she deserved Tom. She wasn't naïve enough to think she was his idea of a future sister-in-law but they had been getting on civilly in the past couple weeks since she and Tom had told everyone. He was silent for ten seconds before he muttered, "It's about the beer."

Mary nodded knowingly. "Of course. I am very sorry about that. We'll need to keep better stocked in future."

"Yes, well—" He shoved his hands in his pockets. "Would you make sure to buy some Guinness?"

Guinness? "Is— is that a type of beer or a brand?" She asked. When he gave her an astonished look, she quickly defended herself by saying, "I've never drunk a drop of beer in my life."

"Not even in a pub?"

"I wasn't exactly permitted to go to pubs," Mary pointed out. "And the times I have been, I was normally told to order a water."

Kieran nodded. "Perhaps we ought to change that," he said with a nod. It took Mary a moment to realize he was actually suggesting they go to a pub at some point.

Mary smiled. Maybe it wasn't the most glamorous suggestion but it was nice to know that she was making a good impression on Kieran— she doubted Tom would ever admit it, but she knew his reception of her was the one that was most important, what with the business and the fact Kieran was his only sibling. "I'd like that," she told him honestly. "So— you want some Guinness?"

Kieran nodded. "Tommy'll help you if you need help remembering."

"You always call him that," Mary wondered aloud. "Why is that?"

He shrugged. "Don't know. He was always Tommy when we're younger. He was the baby of the family until Nuala came along."

She supposed it was the Branson version of _Sybil darling._ Still, it was strange imagining Tom as the youngest. While she would never dare call him _old_ , he had several years over her. She began to wonder what he was like as a little boy, running around on his grandfather's farm or fishing with his father and Kieran... or a slightly older Tom, with the woman who had stood so close to him at the funeral and touched his arm.

No— she wouldn't dwell on that. Now wasn't the time to wonder who that woman had been or how she knew Tom... or those comments that seemed laden with subtext. "Well, I'll try to remember, Kieran, but I'll be sure to ask Tom if I forget." She offered him a smile before heading into the kitchen. She swore she heard Kieran say, " _Wait_ ," but it was so quiet that it was easy to assume she imagined it.

Mary was surprised to find Tom already in the kitchen, red-faced and speaking lowly with his aunt, and Nuala. He didn't look pleased in the slightest, and Fiona, who had clearly been in the middle of washing the dishes, had stopped halfway through to listen in on what Tom was saying. Soap-suds clung to her wet hands.

"—haven't forgotten what she was like at your wedding," Nora was saying in a furious whisper. "I don't think she spoke two words to me— and she didn't even recognize me today!"

Oh God... this was about her. Mary stopped walking, everything seeming to go still.

"That was seven years ago!" Tom insisted, his hands balled up in fists. She was sure when he eventually unfurled them, there would be crescent moon shaped indents left in his palm. "You don't know her or anything about what she's gone through, nor about how much she's helped me! I was far away from home and my wife was dead—"

"So you fell into the arms of her sister," finished Nora, arms crossed over her chest.

Mary felt sick. She knew what was what people must think when they saw them together, but it was horrifying to have it verified, and by a member of Tom's family no less. It had been her greatest fear upon accepting him (save for her initial worries he might reject her) and now here it was, confirmed.

"It wasn't like that!"

"Oh, what was it like, then?"

"Mam!" Nuala interjected, her soft, lyrical voice unexpectedly harsh. She turned to Tom. "Look, Tom, you know her better than we do, but—"

She was cut off by her mother, who interrupted with, "I'm not unsympathetic, I know she lost her husband. But what do you expect us to do, Tommy?" his aunt asked, throwing her hands up in the air. "I know you're lonely, I know you miss your wife, but she'll never be a replacement for Sybil!"

"She's her own person and she's not supposed to be replacing anybody!" Tom cried out, dragging a hand through his hair. "Why can't you believe that I love her as she is and for who she is?"

"Because she isn't right for you!" burst out Nora. "What happened to that boy who wanted nothing more than to get away from Downton Abbey and that blasted family?" Mary's heart stuttered in her chest at that. When had this been? "You deserve a nice girl, one who's down to Earth and knows where you've come from, not someone who only knows fancy manors and ballgowns!"

Fiona, who finally noticed her standing on the edge of the room, suddenly cried out, "Mary!" All eyes turned to her. "I'm so glad you've finally come back like you said you would!"

Mary didn't doubt that— Fiona had been nothing but friendly, but she suspected her presence was largely unwanted from everyone else— even Tom looked uncomfortable by her appearance. "I was just trying to find the water closet," said Mary, putting on a brave smile and acting as though she hadn't heard anything.

"It's over there," Nuala said, pointing to a door behind Mary on the right, her cheeks bright pink.

"Thank you," she said, advancing towards it quickly. She drowned out their voices as she locked herself into the small room.

Mary was pleased that she wasn't claustrophobic, as everything was cramped quarters in here. It was almost as if someone had decided to convert a closet into a bathroom. There was barely any room for the tub, which was nowhere as large as the one they had at Downton.

Mary let out a sigh, sitting on the toilet seat. She had hoped to make a good impression on Tom's family but clearly, she had done the opposite. She wondered what she had she done wrong— she had attempted to be as personable as possible and steer clear away from her regular, cold façade... but her main priority in all this was Tom.

_Oh, Tom_... She wasn't going to pretend his suffering wasn't the greatest of all, but this whole trip hadn't exactly been a walk in the park thus far for her. It was hard being a pillar of strength when the person you loved was in pain. Mary knew what it was to lose a spouse and a grandparent, but she had been fortunate enough thus far to still have Mama and Papa. She couldn't comprehend what he was going through...

Furthermore, the only things (or, rather, people) familiar to her was Tom and Kieran. Mary had visited Ireland several times for various balls years before Tom had even appeared at Downton but never Dublin. Her only real experience with the city was for his and Sybil's wedding, which had been an overwhelming and different experience than she was used to.

She tried to ignore the comment about Tom

hating Downton, even as tears prickled in her eyes. She knew he couldn't have said that, not recently, or else why would he have bothered returning home from America? Besides, there was no way even the most pessimistic voices in her head could convince her that Tom didn't love their family. But still... it hurt to know that was how he had once felt.

There was a knock at the door. "It's occupied," Mary called out and wiping her eyes. She sniffled ever so slightly. She hoped the knocker hadn't heard her... the last thing she wanted them to think was that she was sensitive as well as cold and grand.

"It's me." _Tom._ The sound of his voice was a relief. "We're leaving."

Mary inadvertently met her own gaze in the mirror, seeing her shock reflected back at her. "Don't be ridiculous," she told him, examining herself. There was a silly part of her that the hostility she was facing was the result of some superficial flaw that could be fixed in seconds... and she didn't want them to think her weak. "We aren't leaving."

"Trust me," said Tom, sounding somewhat irate, "it's best we leave... or else I might say something I'll regret."

Her dark eyebrows furrowed. Mary looked away from the mirror, to the spot where she was guessing Tom's face was on the opposite side. She blinked before saying, "Alright," and unlocking the door.

Mary half-expected Tom to be wearing an expression akin to displeasure when she exited the bathroom but she only found concern. "Are you okay?" he asked softly, eyes inspecting every inch of her.

She nodded. "I am. I just needed a moment alone." She glanced over his shoulder. Nuala was sitting at the table, who looked incredibly uncomfortable, staring down at her folded hands. Nora was by the sink, scrubbing dishes with an almost unwarranted amount of ferocity. Mary had a sinking feeling she knew why.

Seeming content with her answer, Tom wrapped an arm around her shoulders, steering her towards the door. Kieran stood near the door of the flat, hands in his pocket, and looking distinctly uncomfortable. Fiona was near him, and she loudly, "Goodbye, Mary, I'm _so_ glad to have met you." She glared daggers to her mother and sister behind her.

"It was lovely to meet you as well. I hope we'll see each other again," Mary said, feeling rather awkward but determined to let this young girl know that her opinions of her weren't tainted in the slightest. How was one supposed to react when the man they were seeing argued with his family over you and then decided to leave abruptly? None of their governesses had prepared her for that. Still, wanting to be as polite as possible, she stopped just before the door to turn around and say, as genuinely as she could muster, "Thank you very much for the dinner. It was lovely."

"Tell Uncle Callum, Rian, and the boys we said goodbye and that we're sorry to have missed them," Tom added, though it sounded slightly less sincere than Mary's farewell.

Without another word, they left.

* * *

The sun was setting as they climbed into the car. Mary was still rattled, even after walking down several flights of stairs. Tom was quiet the entire time, seeming strangely unaffected. It made Mary want to know what was wrong with him— this wasn't like him, to pick fights and then act as though nothing was wrong. When Tom was truly upset, he wore it around him like a heavy coat for the rest of the day.

"There was no need to leave," she told him, repeating her previous sentiments.

Tom gave her a dubious look. "What was the alternative?"

"They're your family," insisted Mary. Tom hadn't started up the car yet and they simply sat in front of the building. "You haven't had the chance to see them in years. There's no point getting upset for my sake." She was pleased her voice hadn't wavered yet.

Tom's jaw tightened. Mary wasn't certain if his anger was directed at her or his family. "Let me ask you something," he said, deceptively conversational, "How would feel if you introduce me to someone and they treated me like that?"

"Tom, there's no need for you to feel as though you must protect me. I can handle myself," she insisted.

Tom sat a hand on the steering wheel. "I know that. And I also know you'll never admit when something is really bothering you."

"But it doesn't," insisted Mary, "not really. I'm here because of you— and I hate the thought of you breaking from your family for me." He hadn't had a chance to see them in years... Mary could handle their disapproval and she certainly could endure it for Tom's sake.

"I don't like watching people treat you badly," insisted Tom. "When they feel like apologizing, maybe we can go back. But for now... I just want to be with you."

In spite of everything, Mary's heart skipped a beat. She nodded, and he started up the car, driving them back to the hotel as the sun set in the pink sky.

* * *

Upon arriving to the hotel, Tom and Mary went their separate ways. "I don't know about you, but I'm quite tired," Tom told her once they reached their hallway. "I think I'll turn in."

"Of course. You must be exhausted." She knew he hadn't slept well the night before— he was probably starting to get run down. She pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, though Tom moved his head so that their lips met completely. Some of Mary's tension from earlier ebbed away slightly. In spite of the fact so many things had gone wrong, this was the one thing that felt right.

It was with great reluctance that Mary pulled away after a minute or so of intense, lingering kisses. Someone was bound to step out of their room and the last thing she wanted was to be accused to being indecent... that would be the cherry on top of this already sad and stressful day. Her lips were slightly swollen as she said, "Goodnight, my darling. Get some rest."

"Goodnight," he echoed, voice low. It seemed as if all his energy was gone... Mary only hoped this meant he could sleep easily. He said nothing again, until he reached his own door. "I love you."

Mary couldn't help but smile when she heard that. It was amazing how those three words could make her feel better instantly. "And I love you," she echoed, determined to reciprocate the favor. She opened up her door, knowing if she stayed a second longer, they'd be in the hallway forever.

It took a while for Mary to fall asleep. Now that she was alone, she was plagued by a number of unsettling thoughts. That brunette woman at the graveyard had bothered her immensely, as did the fact Tom had never mentioned her. Was she an old friend who Mary was determined to vilify over a petty jealousy over an imagined affair, or had they once been together? She had been awfully familiar with him... Mary tried to remind herself that even if they had been in a romantic relationship, it had happened years before he and known either her or Sybil and therefore this jealousy of hers was pointless, but it still bothered her... maybe because she knew his family would rather be with someone like her.

Then there was the whole matter with his family and his aunt's comments about Downton. She wondered when it was he had been so unhappy, only hoping she hadn't been a part in making it miserable for him. In the past, she had been less than receptive and welcoming to his presence but she had genuinely tried once she realized how happy he made her sister. There was a lingering doubt, wondering if maybe it was before he had left for America...

Then there was the ever looming issue of whether or not they really were meant for one another. When Sybil and Matthew had hosted their supernatural intervention, they made it sound so certain. Mary doubted her feelings would ever change... but she couldn't help but worry about Tom's. With the way he had been talking lately about the things he regretted in his past, Mary was full of anxieties. He had mentioned possible future children (and with her, no less), but so far it seemed like idle curiosities rather than a real commitment to start a life. She didn't doubt he loved her now but what would the future entail?

Mary wouldn't deny it; she wanted to be married again— and more importantly, she wanted to be married to Tom. She wanted to wake up in his arms every morning and make the two of them, George, and Sybbie into a proper family...

But right now, it seemed like there was no telling if or when Tom would be ready for it. Besides, she thought with a sigh, now wasn't the time to be worrying about such things. Tom's mother had only just been buried today, for heaven's sakes, and he needed time to heal before worrying about all that. All her little worries seemed petty and selfish in light of that.

Mary changed into a nightgown, staring at the silhouette of Dublin as the sun set from her window. It was still so bright yet... and with all her worries, Mary suspected it would be some time before she could sleep. She was glad she'd the foresight to bring a book along with her, allowing her to page through it and distract herself from her troubles until the sky was dark and her eyes were tired. All it had taken was turning off the lamp and her head hitting the pillow for slumber to claim her.

However, only three hours had passed when Mary awoke to a jarring, thumping noise. Someone was knocking on her door. Mary's eyes flew open into the darkness. It took her a moment to remember where she was. She had no idea what the time was...

The knocking continued. Mary wasn't certain what she ought to do, but she crawled out of bed, slipping her dressing gown over her shoulders just in case. She looked through the peephole, breathing out a sigh of relief when she saw it was Tom.

"You scared me," she confessed after unlocking and opening the door. The lights in the hallway were bright, through there was a shadow cast over his face. When he didn't say anything, Mary held the door open wider. "Would you like to come in?"

"I would," replied Tom. "Very much, if you'll have me."

Mary didn't quite know what to make of that, but she let him into her darkened room, flicking on the light. She winced, eyes still not completely adjusted. "What is it, then?" She asked him.

"Can I stay here with you? For the night?" Tom swallowed, eyes landing on her now unmade bed. "I can't sleep. All I can think about is everything— the only time I can seem to turn it off is when I'm with you."

That pronouncement made her take in a deep breath. "Of course," she replied.

"Just to sleep," Tom clarified.

"Of course," she repeated. "I'll just turn off the light." The lights went out and she moved through the darkness to her bed. She bumped into him, misjudging the distance between them, murmuring "Sorry," as she backed away. There was a soft thump as his slippers hit the floor and Mary managed to crawl into the bed. It only took a moment for the Tom to join her, the mattress sinking as he sprawled out. Mary rolled over to face him, even though she couldn't quite make out his features in the dark. One of his arms draped over her waist, his fingers brushing against her back. She could feel the warmth, even through her nightgown.

Within minutes, they were asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: We haven't quite seen the last of Tom's family yet! In case you were wondering why they acted the way they did, keep in mind that they (with the exception of Kieran) haven't seen him since the beginning of Season 3, when he was a drastically different person. I think learning that Tom is not only dating another Earl's daughter but specifically Sybil's sister would be a massive shock for them and completely out of the character with the Tom they remember, especially with their memories of a Season 2 Mary who may have been reluctant to get to know them. I also want to point out that since the story takes place from Tom and Mary's perspectives, it's naturally going to be biased and skew more towards their favor because they're unreliable narrators whose feelings and thoughts will affect the narrative. Mary, even though she is trying to put her best foot forward, isn't always the easiest person to get along with... but of course she doesn't see that and Tom, who loves her, is somewhat blinded to that, especially now at such a vulnerable time. Okay, rant over!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the lovely comments! I am so glad you are enjoying the story and Tom’s family! I’ve had a lot of fun writing them!
> 
> There is some Irish in this chapter and the translations are in the end notes— my apologies if anything is incorrect!
> 
> I hope everyone has been keeping healthy and safe!

**Let You Live**

**Chapter Four**

Though he only managed only a scant five hours of sleep, Tom awoke feeling refreshed. Gray light spilled in through Mary's parted curtains, illuminating them both in her bed. Her eyes were still closed, lips parted, and breathing steady. She was an absolute vision.

Not wanting to leave her or to even rise from her bed, Tom stayed put, intermittently alternating closing his eyes for extended periods of time in an attempt to go back to sleep and watching her, studying her features to commit them to his memory. Though they had been lucky enough to spend several nights together, the secrecy that had confined them for nearly a month meant they hadn't many opportunities to bask together in the quiet of the morning.

After an hour of so, returning to sleep seemed a fruitless endeavor and his bladder had begun protesting. As slowly and as carefully as possible, Tom withdrew from the bed, the cool air unwelcome against his bare arms and legs. He picked his dressing gown off the floor, slipping on, though it was nothing compared to the warmth from the bed. He crossed the room, eyes never leaving Mary for more than a few seconds before he made it to her bathroom, where he closed the door behind him quietly.

When he returned, Mary was sitting up in the bed, rubbing her eyes. Her short, dark hair was somewhat askew. "I'm sorry," he said softly, as though she were still asleep. "I didn't mean to wake you."

Mary shook her head. She was still somewhat groggy as she asked, "Are you feeling any better?"

"Much." He joined her under the covers once more after hanging his dressing gown up on one of the bed posts. "I'm haven't bounced back quite yet, but I'm closer to being there than I was before."

Mary smiled at him, her eyelids still heavy. "I'm glad to hear it." Her voice sounded huskier than normal— it was something Tom had noticed before, from the rare occasions he'd heard her speak just after waking. He only wished he could hear it more often.

Seemingly to realize he had no desire to be roused for the day, Mary settled back down against her pillows. She faced him to ask, "What time are we to meet Kieran?"

Tom realized that they hadn't sorted that arrangement out. He had been in such a hurry to leave, to subject Mary no more to their lack of courtesy, that he and Kieran hadn't ironed out a time. Mary seemed to catch on as Tom thought it through. When he remembered it was a Sunday, he replied, "Sometime after ten, I'd imagine," he told her. "He'll probably go to church."

"Will you?" she asked.

Tom knew he probably should, but shook his head. "I think God'll forgive me for missing out this once." He and Sybbie usually went into Ripon every Sunday when the rest of the family went to church in the village, but there had been a few occasions when he had been known to not attend.

Mary smiled slightly. "What shall we do, then? To pass the time?"

"Can we just... lie here a while?" asked Tom, feeling more at ease in this bed than he had since stepping foot on dry land.

Mary cut him off with a quick kiss. "Of course we can." She settled back down, using his chest as a pillow, wrapping an arm around his torso. Tom couldn't help but smile, his chin resting on the top of her head, inhaling the scent of her hair.

* * *

Eventually, Tom and Mary dressed for the day, once the sun peeked through the grey clouds. "Anna's fortunate I'm so fond of her," Mary teased as Tom helped with the small buttons on the back of her dress, "or else I'd hire you as my lady's maid."

Tom let out a chuckle. "It seems I've missed my calling. Too bad I'm stuck as an estate agent."

It was her turn to laugh. There was strange domesticity to it, Tom helping her into her clothes. "But I think Anna is worth keeping on," Tom continued. "I think she is better at doing hair than myself."

Mary hummed. "You're probably right." She paused. "Though... didn't you do Sybil's hair for her?"

Tom's hands stilled on the third to last button. "Not really." He started up again. "I was more skilled in undoing her hair." Before it could sound completely indecent, he quickly said, "She would have all these little pins in her hair, and she couldn't always see the ones in the back, so I'd take them out for her at the end of the day."

Mary smiled, more to herself than anything. "I thought she told me something about you braiding her hair?"

"I would. At night times. Though I confess, I wasn't very good at it." He'd finished with the buttons, his fingers now subconsciously trailing Mary's bob. "Good enough, I suppose... but in the end, she decided to deal with so much hair on her own was a hassle and had it cut."

"Did you like it? Her hair short like that?" Mary's voice was quiet.

"I think almost every man has a fondness for long hair, in a way," admitted Tom, "but I did like it. She was so proud to show it off to me..." He trailed off, lost in a memory.

"I've thought about growing mine out again," Mary confessed. "I like it short and I know it makes Anna's life easier, but..."

His lips met the back of her neck. "You'll look beautiful either way."

* * *

After eating breakfast, Tom decided to drive Mary around the city, showing her all his old haunts. He felt a burst of pride each time she smiled in awe when he pointed out an old familiar place, whether it be the headquarters of the newspaper he used to work for or his old school.

She had so many questions— more than he had been expecting. She asked how he had liked his old job— "Do you think you'd ever do it again— working for a newspaper?"

Tom smiled, shaking his head. "I like the job I have now— it's the best one I've ever had." That had caused her smile to widen and Tom felt his heart beat just a little faster.

"Did you read many plays when you were in school?" Mary asked a while later after they drove past it.

Tom frowned. "A handful. We read _Romeo and Juliet_... why do you ask?"

She had a curious look on her face. "No reason." After a pause, she suggested, "Maybe we could go see some. In London."

"That would be nice," said Tom, thinking how lovely it would be the spend even more time with Mary, though uncertain why she had thought to mention it. Perhaps it was an idea she had been playing around with for a while.

At a certain point, she finally asked about the signs. "It's almost as if they've another language on them," she observed, pointing to one near the river.

Tom smiled. "It's Irish."

"Do you speak it?"

" _An bhfreagraíonn sé seo do cheist_?"

"I take it that means yes."

"In a roundabout way." He grinned cheekily.

"You have hidden depths," observed Mary coyly. "I never knew you could speak another language." She tilted her head to the side. "Say something else."

" _Tá tú go hálainn_."

"And what does that mean?"

Tom glanced down, feeling somewhat shy. He should have known she would ask. "You're beautiful."

He felt her lips press against his cheek and he was thankful he didn't crash the car when they did.

"And that," he pointed out, parking on the side of the street, "is the hospital Sybil worked at."

Tom watched Mary mouth out _St. Agnes's Hospital_ , a look of awe on her face. No doubt she had received many letters with tales from the place. "How far away was it? From where you lived?"

"About ten blocks," said Tom, staring up at the place. "But she never minded the walk."

He saw Mary smile. It occurred to him, how lucky he had been to find love with someone who had adored Sybil as much as he had. Someone who would never be jealous of the life he'd had with her, someone who not only knew her but who had understood her. While Mary and Sybil had not always seen eye to eye on everything, there had always been a great deal of love. It was always her name out of Sybil's lips whenever something exciting happened: " _I must write to Mary and tell her!_ "

And he supposed in a way, it was the same for her. Matthew had been the first person to make him feel welcome at Downton. They didn't come from the same background, not in the slightest, but Matthew had been an outsider in a way as well. He thought all the rules and traditions foreign, just as Tom had. In a short time, Matthew had become his best friend. His death had been a huge blow— he wouldn't pretend it rivaled Mary's, when her grief was astronomical, but even now he missed his friend. He only hoped that wherever he was, Matthew understood how much Tom cared for Mary.

"Goodness," said Mary, jerking Tom out of his thoughts. "It's ten o'clock already."

Sure enough, Tom heard a bell ringing in the distance, signaling the time. "We'd better head to Mam's, then," he said, starting up the car again.

* * *

Mrs. Branson's home was smaller than Mary remembered it. When she and Edith had come to Ireland for the wedding, they had stayed in a hotel, but they had come to visit Sybil in her new home at Mrs. Branson's. They had also been among the first visitors to the flat Tom and Sybil would eventually share, though at the time it was only inhabited by Tom. Some of Sybil's things had already been moved there— including a picture of the family.

How times had changed.

Mary knelt on the hardwood floors of Mrs. Branson's bedroom, pulling the box out of the closet. A piece of paper taped on top of it read: _T and S's Things._

The first thing Mary found was that family portrait, which Sybil had been so proud to show them when they visited the flat. It had been taken in Granny's gardens, near her famous roses. Papa was the only one standing, in between Granny and Mama, who had been seated in white whicker chairs. It was impossible to tell in the grey scale of the picture, but everyone had worn shades of white and cream. Mary, Edith, and Sybil knelt on the ground, all looking so young.

The older Mary brushed dust of the thin pane of glass, carried away back to a simpler time. She must have only been seventeen at the time; it was the first picture the family had posed for. Mary and Edith resembled their adult selves, but Sybil was almost unrecognizable at thirteen, her cheeks round and hair loose. A white hat with a ribbon was on her head— Mary recalled Edith putting up a fuss because it was pink and " _we're all supposed to be in white!_ "

Mary set it aside. Sybbie would like to see it; George probably as well. Mary was certain Mama and Papa had the copy of it somewhere at home— but even they would like the trip down memory lane.

Goodness— it wasn't like her to be so sentimental. Still, Mary forgave her lapse quickly. When it came to Sybil, excuses could be made.

Under the photograph were mundane belongings, though she knew implicitly how significant they were. These were remnants of the life Tom had once had before coming to Downton, the life he had shared with her beloved sister. A blue book, which had a flower pressed between the pages and an inscription in Tom's handwriting: _Happy one month anniversary, a ghrá geal. I cannot wait to spend the rest of our lives together._

Mary's index finger traced over the inscription. Again, she had that same insecurity creep into her mind again— was a life with her what Tom really wanted?

She tried to put it out of her mind, instead focusing on the strange words. _A ghrá geal..._ it was probably something in Irish... though what, she couldn't say. Knowing it was addressed to Sybil, it was likely some term of endearment.

There were more possessions— an empty glass bottle, a spool of white thread, a tube of red lipstick... small momentous chronicling the of life a couple. There was a small stuffed bear, with brown fur and looking as if it had never been played with. There was a stack of letters, bound together with a ribbon, all addressed to Tom from Ireland. There was a smaller stack with letters from Downton for Sybil. Mary saw her own handwriting on the envelope on the top.

Then there was a picture of Tom in a suit, standing next to Mrs. Branson. They were both smiling, beaming ear to ear. Based on their clothing, Mary realized it was for the wedding. Mary smiled slightly— Tom would want this. She tried to imagine where he might place it— on his desk? Or perhaps on the mantle piece?

This box could come with them to Downton, she realized, and dragged it out of Mrs. Branson's closet. Tom could decide if the things there were worth keeping, though she hoped he would. She was eager to learn the stories behind them, and she was certain Sybbie would delight in anything that had belonged to Sybil.

Mary began sorting out Mrs. Branson's clothing from its hangers, separating them out. Most of it was to be donated to the church for the needy, though Tom's aunt had informed Kieran she would likely take a few articles for herself, to remember her sister. She was due to stop by and do her part tomorrow... after Tom and Mary had left the country.

It grated on Mary, how poorly things had gone. Not for her sake— after having a restful night of sleep and time to process things, Mary wouldn't deny now that their rejection of her had stung. But it was Tom's feelings that were most important here— not hers. The reunion with his aunts and uncles and cousins hadn't been what he wanted... she could still see the disappointment on his face at the burial when his mother's brother and his wife had practically run from them after learning she was Sybil's sister.

Mary wasn't selfless enough to give Tom up— not when his love was the thing she treasured most— but she wondered if being with her was what would truly make him happy. The last thing she had wanted to do was alienate him from his family but she wasn't sure how the divide could be bridged as long as she was in the picture. If their objection was on the grounds that she was too snobbish or there was some sort of defect in her personality, that was something she could strive to change, but she would never stop being Sybil's sister.

Once all the clothes were sorted out and placed into the empty boxes that Kieran had designated were for the donations, Mary moved onto Mrs. Branson's nightstand. A gilded picture frame sat atop it, with a family of four looking straight at the camera.

Mary picked up the photograph gingerly. A short albeit commanding woman with a stern face and bright eyes stared back at her, shoulders straight back. Her husband had a dark mustache and wore a hat and overalls. He wore a similarly severe expression, but Mary could tell it was only for the camera by the affable look in his eye. His arm was wrapped around his wife.

Kieran, who looked as if he was not quite yet a teenager but not a little boy, reached his father's chest. His dark hair was floppy, several strands falling in his face. His eyes were scrunched up as if the sun was shining brightly. He was clearly trying to emulate his parents in the stance he adopted, but all Mary saw was a boy trying to be a man.

However, the best part of all was the small boy standing in front of his mother, beaming widely. She had a hand on his slight shoulder, no doubt to keep him in place while the picture was taken, but he looked ready to run at a moment's notice. His two front teeth were missing, his cheeks round and chubby, and he stood below his mother's waist but it was unmistakably Tom.

"What've you got there?" asked Tom, walking towards her. Mary smiled down again before showing it to him. A laugh escaped him. "That was a long time ago!"

"Yes, it was," said Mary, still admiring the family portrait of the Bransons. "You're not much older than Sybbie and George here, are you?"

"I was seven. I think." He took the photo from her hands. "I have to show this Kieran."

"We need to take it back with us," Mary told him. "We'll give Kieran a copy, of course, but the children would love to see this."

Tom grinned. "How are you coming along in here?"

"Well, I think," said Mary, gesturing to the boxes at their feet. "All her clothes are sorted. And... and I found some of your things. Well, yours and Sybil's." She walked over to the box in question, nudging it ever so slightly.

Tom knelt down, peering into it. He rummaged about, smiling at the things he came across. When he found the teddy bear, he held it up. "This was for Sybbie," he said quietly, marveling at it. "Before... before she was born. I bought it for her the day after Sybil told me we were to have a baby..."

Mary's hand fell to his shoulder. It was touching, how soon he had been devoted to being a good father for his child. Based on the letters she had exchanged with Sybil during that time, Mary was fairly certain they hadn't been intending to start a family quite so soon, but they had been pleased nonetheless... and how could they not be? "I'm sure she'll love it, even if it is a little late," she told him. A thought struck her. "And just in time for her birthday, too."

Tom rose to his feet, placing Sybbie's bear back in the box. "She already has an awful lot of stuffed animals already..." he said, sounding uncertain and not at all like her Tom Branson.

"A child can never have too many," Mary insisted thinking of her own collection she'd had when she was Sybbie's age. She met his gaze. "Besides, it has a story behind it."

Tom smiled at her, eyes falling to her lips. Mary was preparing herself, ready to lean in, when someone— a feminine someone—cleared their throat.

Mary was almost shocked to find Tom's cousin Nuala standing in the doorway. She didn't looked particularly shocked by their near lapse in decorum. In fact, if anything, she was nonchalant. "Sorry to interrupt, but Kieran told me I'd find you here." Nuala took another step in. "I came to help, to do my part."

Before Tom could say anything, Mary said, "Thank you so much. We really do appreciate it." She gave the woman as warm a smile as she could manage. She didn't want to reignite the fight... and perhaps if things started out on the right foot, maybe she could convince them how serious she was about him.

"Is there anything I can help you with in here, Lady Mary?" asked Nuala, sounding sincere.

"Just Mary. Please," she corrected. She thought that she had told her that yesterday, but perhaps she had forgotten. "And yes, I think I could." Truthfully, Mary knew she could manage it on her own, but Nuala seemed to be extending the olive branch and she wasn't about to swat it away when it was offered.

Tom gave her a quizzical look, and she hoped her self determined gaze assured him that she could handle herself. "I'll leave the two of you to it, then," he said, albeit reluctantly. He nodded to his cousin before leaving the room.

Nuala stood, uncertain in the doorway. She had red hair, just like her sister and mother, in a bun atop her head. If she had to guess, Mary would suppose they were about the same age, with Nuala perhaps a few years younger. "I was just about to sort out the things from her nightstand," Mary informed her. "I already have done what I can with the clothes... if there's anything you'd like or for your mother, please feel free to take it."

Nuala shook her head. "I'll let Mam choose. I'm not good with that sort of thing." She met Mary by the nightstand as she emptied a drawer onto the the bed. A hard worn Bible was in there, along with a rosary. "I— I wanted to apologize as well." Her eyes were downcast, studying her aunt's possessions. "I'm sorry if I made you feel unwelcome."

"Don't worry about all that," said Mary, opening another drawer. "Truthfully, Tom was more upset about it than I was." The second drawer contained some letters— almost all of them from England. Some were in Tom's hand writing, others in a sloping scrawl that Mary presumed was Kieran's based on the Liverpool address.

"Well, I'm sorry about it anyway." Mary deposited the letters on the bed. They could sort them out later, each brother receiving his own letter. "The thing is... well, we didn't expect to be so fond of Sybil. Not at the start."

Mary froze, listening carefully. This was the insight she had craved yesterday in Nora's flat... Nuala continued, "When Tom told us all he was bringing back the daughter of an Earl, we thought he was mad. And things were especially bad then... well, we assumed a lot of things about her. Mam thought she must be pregnant— she couldn't see any other reason it could be allowed." Nuala paused, smiling to herself. "But once we actually met her, we came to understand."

Mary nodded. "She was an extraordinary person." Mary realized she was biased— she had thought the world of her little sister, in spite of her daring stunts and her wild ideas. The truth was that Mary had admired how freely Sybil could speak her mind at the dinner table and not flinch whenever someone disagreed. Mary, as a woman, had felt it unfair that women didn't have the vote, but she never had voiced that thought. She was also far more liberal than many would have ever realized, but again, to speak of it openly would have been a death sentence to potential prospects from suitors.

The main difference, Mary had realized, was that she cared far too much about what people thought. It was an affliction that still plagued her— her reactions upon learning what people thought of her and Tom was evidence enough of that. Sybil, however, was determined to pursue her own happiness and she didn't give a damn what anyone else thought. Their thoughts and opinions were their own business and she never dwelled on them. It was one of those many reasons that Mary wondered if she really was a good match for Tom...

Nuala's smile started to fade ever so slightly. "I hope you realize that... well, it took us by surprise. To learn he'd taken up with you. Her sister," she added, as if Mary may have somehow forgotten. "And lightening doesn't strike twice..." she trailed off uneasily.

"And not every Earl's daughter would be as kind as Sybil," Mary finishes, knowing what Nuala was getting at. She understood her point— really, she did, but she couldn't deny feeling prickly. "Well, you're right. I'm not like Sybil." She faced Nuala. "I won't pretend I am. I wish I were even as half as kind or as helpful as she was, but I'm not. But she was my sister, and I still love her very much... but that doesn't mean I don't love Tom." It occurred to Mary then, how much she had changed in such a few short months— less than four months ago, she never would have admitted to another soul what she was truly feeling when it came to Tom, and now she was proclaiming her love for him to someone who was virtually a stranger to her.

Mary waited, still and wondering how Nuala would respond. Truthfully, the woman looked surprised by Mary's proclamation... and Mary gathered she was feeling some of the awkwardness and discomfort Mary had initially felt. Instead of feeling sadistically delighted by the turning of the tables, Mary rather pitied her.

Nuala finally turned back to the drawers. "I don't know you Lad— _Mary_ ," she corrected herself in time. "I'd just had Connor and I never went to the wedding so we've never even had the chance to meet. All I know about you comes from what Mam said and from Sybil... but I figured Sybil might have just been being overly optimistic."

Mary couldn't help but smile. Sybil had always seen Mary and Edith as these nice people who occasionally would butt heads, almost willfully ignorant to how nasty they could be— to each other and to others. Perhaps it was because they doted on her so that her perception of them was skewed in their favor. Even into adulthood, Sybil had idealized her in many ways. "I don't blame you. I'm sure she was, for the most part. You know how little sisters can be," she said, thinking of Fiona. She wondered if the young girl had followed Nuala around as often as Sybil had chased after Mary, determined to know where she was going.

A somewhat sad look crossed Nuala's features. "Not really. Fi and I aren't exactly close. Rian and I live outside the city, it's hard to find the time to visit." Her eyes were downcast as she turned back to her aunt's possessions.

Ah... so it was more similar to her dynamic with Edith. "I'm sure you're aware Sybil and I have another sister," she said quietly, pulling out another drawer. This one contained jewelry— nothing expensive or fancy, but nice enough. In fact, Mary recognized the bracelet from Tom's wedding photo. "And for the longest time we didn't get on, either. But we've become close in the last year or so... so if you keep working at it, you'll be amazed by the change."

Nuala's bottom lip was trapped between her teeth. "I want to be. I do. But— but she resents me." Mary seemed to have struck a chord somewhere, because (much to her horror) Nuala's eyes were swimming with tears. "I love her. I really do. I've loved her before she was even born, but..." she trailed off.

"She'll come around. I'm almost sure of it," Mary said softly but quickly, even though she realistically had no way of verifying that. She hardly knew either of their characters, considering they had only just met the day before. "Just be patient with her."

"Thanks," Nuala managed to choke out, wiping at her eyes. The tears were almost gone, much to Mary's relief. She wasn't one for comforting others— Tom was a rare exception. Instead of focusing on her own discomfort, she was more struck by how much his pain hurt her. She supposed it was further proof that she loved him.

"Maybe you could do something with her while you are here," suggested Mary, thinking of the ways she had bonded with Sybil and even Edith. "Take her out shopping somewhere or gossip with her in her room."

Nuala seemed hesitant. "I don't know if she would want to."

"Well, you'll never know unless you ask," said Mary simply.

Nuala bit her lip again. "Would you— would you consider it? Going out with us?"

Now it was Mary's turn to be hesitant. "I'm not sure if I'll have the time," she said apologetically. "Tom and I are set to leave tomorrow morning... and don't you want to spend some time alone with her? I wouldn't want to intrude." She already felt as though she had done enough of that already yesterday.

But Nuala seemed desperate. "She looks up to you. After you left, she told us how unfair we were and how nice you were and how worried she was that she would never see you again... she'd love it if she could spend more time with you." Mary was astonished by the lack of bitterness was in Nuala's voice. "What about this afternoon, once we have finished up here?"

Mary wasn't sure how to respond. "I'll— I suppose I'll have to ask Tom. I don't know if he has any plans for us." Nuala nodded, accepting this response. Mary was reluctant to ask her next question, but felt she must. "What about your mother? Would she approve?"

There was an odd defiance in Nuala's eyes and voice when she said, "I can handle her. Don't worry about that."

* * *

Being alone with Kieran felt awkward now. Tom tried to ignore it when they stepped into the flat, but there was a tenseness.

It reminded Tom of when they lived at home together. Their personalities hadn't meshed well; it wasn't as catastrophic between them as it was Mary and Edith (or at least, how they had been in the past), but Mam was constantly throwing her hands up in the air and begging them to " _try and get along, for heaven's sake_!"

Living apart had helped their relationship to a considerable degree, in Tom's opinion. In fact, since moving to York, Tom felt their bond was stronger than ever. Kieran was a good salesman and knew the trade well, making him an ideal choice in a business partner. It was easier to make jokes and talk about cars and laugh now than it had ever been before.

But after yesterday, Tom felt though they had taken two steps back. Kieran was maintaining a staunch silence, merely sorting out drawers and placing pans and plates into boxes. Tom had briefly escaped, mumbling something about going to check on Mary, but then Nuala had arrived and Tom felt as though he should leave them.

Tom decided that he would break the silence. "How bad was it after I left?"

Nothing. Tom wondered if he would get a reply until Kieran said, "Aunt Nora was none too pleased. She thinks Mary's messing with your head." Before Tom could spin around in indignation and refute that, Kieran said, "But I reminded her you've always been stubborn as an ox."

Tom grinned. He couldn't find fault with that statement. "Thanks." He reaches up into a shelf, removing some glasses. "Did anyone else have anything to say?"

Kieran snorted. "You ask as if you didn't grow up with them."

"I've been away from home a long time," said Tom, setting the glasses on the counter. "It's easy to forget." He hesitated before adding, "And people change."

"Well, Fiona kept railing on about how Nuala and Nora ruined her life by sending you away and Rian and Callum burst into the thick of it, which started the whole thing up again."

"You didn't leave?"

"Eventually. I had been staying with them, you know," said Kieran with a shrug.

Tom blanched. "Sorry." Then, "Where did you go?"

"I came here. Slept in your old room. Hope you don't mind."

Tom shook his head. "Not at all." It really wasn't his room anymore, not for many years. It had been Sybil's room in more recent history, but Tom didn't see the point in mentioning it.

Tom hesitated. "Do you think there's any chance they'll come around?" He asked, hopeful despite everything.

Kieran didn't say anything, looking down into the box. He rearranged a pot, the metal clattering before he said, "Well, Nuala's here. I'd say she's willing to hear you out. Rian, too... you know he goes along with Nuala." Tom smiled. Rian was a quiet, reserved man who kept his cards close so it was always hard to get a read on him. "But I think it'll be a while for Aunt Nora and Uncle Callum."

Tom sighed through his nose. "I was afraid you'd say that." He reached for some newspaper, wadding it up to wrap up the glassware.

Another silence fell over them. Tom glanced over his shoulder. Kieran was still on the floor, mouth pressed into a thin line as if he were deliberating something. Tom turned back, waiting a moment or two before finally saying, "You might as well spit it out."

"I don't want you getting angry."

"I'll try not to," Tom offered, though he had reservations now.

Kieran sighed. "Is it worth it?" When Tom couldn't determine what his brother meant, he turned around, silently asking him to elaborate with the quirk of an eyebrow. Kieran didn't look at him when he said, "This... this whole thing. With Mary. Is it worth it?" Before Tom could answer (or even begin to process just what his brother was saying), Kieran said, "I'm not asking to be difficult. I'm asking because I want to know."

Tom blinked. He thought he had made his stance clear... but when he looked at his brother, he sensed no malicious intent.

And in a way, when Tom was able to look outside of themselves, he understood it must look strange. So he leaned against the counter, saying, "It is. After Sybil... I didn't think I was ever going to be able to move on and find love again. It seemed impossible to me. But then..."

Then there was Mary. He hadn't realize it was falling before it was too late— and for that, he was glad. Physical distance did nothing to quell his passions— there was nowhere on this Earth he could go without being reminded of her. He had been willing to live out his life in close enough proximity to her to have her be a constant presence, but he never dreamed there would come a day when she would reciprocate.

"I don't know if I ever mentioned this, but I was seeing another woman for a time. Her name was Sarah," he told Kieran. When there was no sign of recognition, Tom continued, "Well, I think if Aunt Nora were to meet her, she'd think that was the right girl for me. She's opinionated and smart— she was a school teacher. She was politically active, too..."

Kieran seemed mull it over. "So what happened?"

"She wasn't what I wanted," said Tom simply. "She was nice and she cared about me— more than I cared for her, I hate to say." If there was one thing he regretted, it was not seeing his real feelings for Sarah sooner. He might have spared her some heartache if he hadn't been caught up in his own dilemma. She had become an afterthought, never managing to ever be the focus of his mind. Maybe, if he could have made it clear to her that they would only ever be friends... "The fact is that I've changed. And Mary— Mary is the one I love. So it is worth it. For me."

Kieran seemed to accept this, nodding. "I think she does love you," he offered, turning back to adding in kitchenware.

Tom grinned. "I _know_ she does."

* * *

Mary found out in short order how easy it was to speak to Nuala. She learned plenty about Nuala's three children, Aiden, Conner, and Aisling, her husband, Rian, and their cottage outside of the city. Mary in turn told her about Tom's life at Downton, Sybbie and George, and her brief adventures with pig farming.

"Everything going well?" Tom asked, popping his head in around two o'clock.

"I would say so," said Mary, turning to Nuala, who nodded. She didn't miss the pleased look in his eye. She felt a burst of pride— she'd mended one fence today, at least. "Do we have any plans once we are through here?" asked Mary.

Tom shrugged. "Not much. I was just telling Kieran he could come with us to the hotel for some dinner." That wasn't such a bad idea... "Do you want to come with us, Nuala? You could bring Rian along... that is, if Aunt Nora and Uncle Callum don't mind looking after your kids."

Nuala shook her head, saying, "You know them. They love their grandchildren." She paused. "D'you mind if we bring Fi along? I know she's missed you and she'd be glad if she could spend more time with Mary."

Tom seemed mildly surprised but said, "Of course not." He gave his cousin a smile before stepping out of the room.

* * *

"That was a nice evening," Mary said as they walked down the hallway back to their rooms. "I rather enjoyed it."

Tom had to resist pointing out that she was more in her element in a hotel dining room than he or his family, but he agreed. "It was."

It had been a nice time, even if things weren't perfect. Nuala has seen that Fiona was wearing her nicest dress and kept fussing over her during dinner, which had lead to some tense moments, but nothing compared to the night before. There had been a lot of laughs, due in large part to Kieran, and Fiona was excited to have a chance to talk to Mary again, which he could tell made Nuala happy. Rian was as quiet as ever, but he made a point of being polite to Mary and asking about Downton. Tom had loved watching her light up, telling them about her beloved home...

Tom had never realized how much it meant, not only for his family to accept Mary, but for her to accept them. She was making a clear effort to know them, listening intently and unafraid to ask questions. She was taking even greater care with them than she had with him when he had returned to Downton... it was astonishing to see how much she had changed. Tom wondered if he had played any part in it.

When dinner wrapped up and his family was readying to leave, Tom heard Nuala ask Mary, "Do you think we could write one another?"

It had warmed his heart when Mary smiled and said, "Certainly."

They stopped walking once they reached Mary's bedroom door. "Do you think we could invite them? To Downton?" asked Mary.

Tom's eyes widened. "We could ask," he said, though he wasn't sure if they could spare the time. Not everyone was lucky enough to be able to leave their home at a moment's notice and travel to another country.

Mary hummed. "Are you coming in or going to your room tonight?" she asked, leaning against the door while she searched her bag for the key.

Tom hesitated. "Do you mind if I stay with you?"

"Of course not." She smiled. "I'd be delighted."

With that, the door swung open and Tom followed after her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An bhfreagraíonn sé seo do cheist? — Does this answer your question?
> 
> A ghrá geal— My bright love


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the lovely comments on the last chapter!

**Let You Live**

**Chapter Five**

They hadn't planned on it. Tom had been the first wake, the warm sun streaming in through the parted curtains. The clock on the mantelpiece claimed it was 10:12. They had been planning on catching the ferry at noon... which meant they ought to consider getting ready to leave.

Mary was laying on her side, so close that her and Tom were sharing a pillow. She looked so serene and relaxed in sleep. He hated the idea of waking her but knew he must. With the arm wrapped around her, Tom nudged her. "Mary," he said, in almost a sing song voice. "Mary..."

She grumbled, burying her face in his chest. Tom couldn't help but chuckle. He would never dare say it out loud, not when he was certain she would level him a dangerous glare, but she looked absolutely adorable. "It's time to wake up, love."

"It's too early," she insisted, not bothering to open her eyes.

"It's after ten." He moved so that he could kiss her forehead before climbing out of the bed. "Time to get up," he said as she groaned.

Once Mary finally left her cocoon of blankets, they dressed for the day in companionable silence. She did up his tie for him and he helped her into her dress. "How do I look?" asked Mary reflexively, studying herself in the mirror, adjusting her necklace ever so slightly.

"Stunning." Tom stepped behind her, pulling her into his arms. He kissed her, meaning for it to be a quick peck, only for it to turn into an unhurried, languid affair. He felt her fingers move through his hair, unrestrained by pomade, and he pulled her closer to him.

Mary was the one to break away. "If I hadn't spent all time with that tie, I'd be tempted to take it off," she told him quietly, looking up at him through her dark eyelashes.

Tom tried not to let that image in his mind but found himself powerless to resist. "If we didn't have a ferry to catch, I'd let you," he countered, forcing himself to step away from her. While he usually found himself wanting Mary every moment of the day, his desires had been dampened by his news from his mother. Any touch from her was less something to stoke his flames of his arousal and more a comfort, a reminder that she was there... but today...

Today was different.

Tom practically inhaled his breakfast, making up for his loss of appetite the past couple of days whilst Mary picked at hers. They left the hotel twenty minutes later, driving through the city. He would miss it— but at least he knew he could return whenever he pleased, which was all he could ask for.

"My family and the funeral aside, did you have a good time?" Tom asked Mary, suddenly needing to know. He didn't know why it was so important, just now, to know how she would respond. A part of him couldn't help equate himself with Ireland, needing to know he had made a lasting impression on her as something worth hanging onto.

"I did. It was nice... seeing where you come from. I feel like I know you better now." Tom's lips twitched. "I only wish we didn't have to leave so soon."

A sudden idea struck him. "Suppose we didn't have to return today," he proposed, glancing over to her. She met his gaze with a look of confusion. "Do you want to go see Bray?"

"Of course. But—"

"Then we can return home tomorrow." His plan became more and more solid with each passing second. He hadn't been there in years, hardly since he was a boy. There had been one trip with Sybil before they had married to visit a cousin, but it had only been for an hour or two and night had fallen before he had the chance to show it off properly. Mary had heard plenty of stories about it and she had liked his tour yesterday... "I'll need to return the car, but we can rent another, and we can head back tomorrow instead."

Mary seemed hesitant. Tom was worried she would decline, insisting that they really must go home, until she asked, "Is there a telephone, where we rented the car? I ought to call Mama and Papa to let them know our change in plans."

Tom breathed out a sigh of relief. Mary wasn't exactly a creature of spontaneity— and it had been a long time since he had acted on a mad plan. He was astonished he was able convince her so easily... maybe a part of the old him was still in there after all. "I'm sure there is."

* * *

Unsurprisingly, Papa was the one to pick up. "Hello?"

"Hello, Papa. It's me, Mary."

"Ah! We were starting to worry about you and Tom. We hadn't heard from you for a few days and we were wondering if you had been lost at sea."

"You really shouldn't joke about that sort of thing," remarked Mary, thinking of Patrick and James.

"No, I suppose I shouldn't. How are things getting along? Do you know what time you'll be back?"

Mary hesitated before saying, "That's the thing: we won't be returning tonight."

"What do you mean you aren't returning tonight?" blustered Papa. "Has something happened?"

"Nothing's wrong. Tom and I just wanted to take advantage of our trip. The whole thing has been rather doom and gloom and Tom needs a holiday. We'll be back tomorrow," she promised... though she wondered if one extra day would be enough.

"But we've been expecting your return!"

"Well, you'll have to wait," said Mary, noticing something out of the corner of her eye. It was Tom, holding up a new set of keys. She wondered what sort of car he had chosen this time.

"Ready?" His eyes were alight— she loved seeing him like this, all excited and eager. It reminded her of the little boy from the photograph the day prior, which was a refreshing change from the perpetual sadness from before. He was going to be alright— and she would be with him.

Mary nodded, terribly excited herself. "That was Tom. He's rented our new car. I have to dash."

"Mary—"

"Please give our love to everyone, especially George and Sybbie," she said hurriedly. "We'll be back before you know it."

"But—"

She hung the phone up, heart hammering in her chest.

* * *

The distance between Bray and Dublin was not a great one. Tom had rented a Model T, which was less flashy than their first car. It was newer than the one at Downton but not, Mary thought, as fetching.

Bray was smaller than Dublin but far larger than the village at home. It had that air of feeling like a quaint, coastal town but it was far more metropolitan than Tom had let on in his stories. Tom pointed out several homes of old school friends and places he would play, businesses his family frequented which has now changed into a different sort of business entirely.

"But where was your home?" She found herself asking after they had weaved through streets where one of his friends had lived.

"Up that way more," he said, pointing in direction of the coast, towards a hill. "Do you want to see it?"

She nodded, eager. "We won't be able to go in or anything," Tom told her, "seeing as it belongs to another family now..."

But Mary didn't care. She just wanted— no, _needed_ , the opportunity to put an image to place Tom had told her about as he recounted stories of his life in Ireland. She already knew his mother's flat, able to picture it well after spending another whole day there. But Mary hadn't gone on the beach he spoke of, nor the place where he and his father went fishing, or the church where he had spent so many Sundays. She wanted to see the same sights that were familiar to the little boy in the photograph.

The Branson's former home sat upon a hill, the road still sloping upwards when Tom parked the car. "It's run down now," he lamented slightly, as Mary soaked in everything. It was not a residence of great size; it was roughly the size of one of the cottages at home, if not smaller. It was hard to fathom a family of four dwelling comfortably in it. There was a great stone wall defining the yard— there was a large enough space in the garden for children to run and play. Mary could picture it now: smaller versions of Tom and Kieran chasing one another on the green grasses, racing each other from one stoned wall to the other, a shaggy dog running alongside them and eager to join in the fun. "It's no Downton, but it was home."

His words brought her back to reality. "Is it your home now? Downton, that is." She couldn't forget the words his aunt had said, about how he hated Downton...

"It is. Though I think it's less to do with the house itself and more to do with the people who live there." She angled her body to face him, melting slightly under his adoring gaze. He took her hands in his own. "Now what else would you like to see?"

* * *

Even though it was a Monday, Tom and Mary found it was easy to enter the church. Tom half expected to see Father Simon at the pulpit, his white hair shining under the light from the stained glass windows, but the entire church was devoid of life. Still, he could feel the presence of something greater there with them.

There was no sound, save for Mary's heels and the shuffling of Tom's shoes against the hardwood floor. She seemed to be marveling at everything in there. "Your descriptions of the place certainly do it justice," remarked Mary finally, her voice filling the cavernous church. "It's almost exactly as I pictured it."

Tom chuckled, spinning around. It was exactly like he remembered it... but smaller. He supposed it was hardly any wonder, since he was no longer a little boy. His legs used to dangle off these pews, feet only beginning to touch the floor once he had turned ten. "I spend a decent part of my childhood here. I know it well."

When they reached front of the aisle, Mary sat in one of the pews. Tom occupied the space next to her, oddly content. When she had requested to come visit this place, he'd been bemused but obliged her. He toyed with asking her about it, but figured it must be because of the stories he had told her of the place when they had dined at the Ritz. It seemed hard to believe it had been about nine months since that night... he never would have thought she would be here with him now.

He opened his mouth to question why she had wanted to come here, but instead found himself asking, "What are you thinking about?"

Mary's eyebrows shot up. "Honestly?" She pivoted her body towards him.

"I'm always honest."

She smiled before turning to face the front of the church once more. "If you must know, I was thinking about the future. Our future." His heart thudded in his chest. _Our._ The two of them, together... it was something he had only used to dream about and now she said it so casually. Mary swallowed before adding, with less ease, "And... I suppose, I was wondering if you would want me to convert. If we were to be married."

Tom wasn't sure what part surprised him more: the talk of switching her faith or of marriage. Both seemed like more drastic turns that he had been envisioning... but he wasn't displeased. Not at all. In fact, he was delighted... His mind began filling with thoughts of standing up at the alter, Mary in a beautiful white dress... but he was getting ahead of himself.

He decided to address her question first. "No. I mean, unless you wanted to. If you believed in it." Surprisingly (or, perhaps, considering the brouhaha that had erupted following his announcement regarding Sybbie's christening, unsurprisingly), in all their years together, religion had never played a big part in their conversations. Come to think of it, he wasn't certain what she believed in. "Do you believe in God, then?" She attended church most Sundays in the village with others while he and Sybbie went to the Catholic church in Ripon, but he knew that didn't necessarily mean anything.

Mary smiled, seeming almost as if she wanted to burst out laughing. "I think this an awkward place to ask that question, especially when there's a fifty percent chance I could say I don't."

Maybe it was sacrilegious, but Tom laughed. He supposed he hadn't thought it through...

"But to answer your question, I do. I wasn't always convinced, mind you, but I think there must be." She seemed more melancholy now, all laughter gone, though she wasn't exactly sad. Meditative, more like. "I prayed for Matthew to be kept safe during the war. I figure it must have worked... that or the good luck charm I sent with him."

"Maybe it was a bit of both," Tom said, trying to lighten things up a bit more. He reached for her hand, her pale skin contrasting against the dark blue of her dress. Months ago, she would have jerked it away. Now, she held it tight.

* * *

Mary couldn't help feeling wary as they approached the inn. It was the sort of place that, while not an obvious danger, would send Mama and Papa into hysterics to know she was even considering spending the night there. Mary was certain they would faint once they learned she was to sleep there tonight... that is, if there was a room available and if she even decided to tell them. In all likelihood, Mary figured she wouldn't.

Tom grabbed their luggage, hauling it with him to the front door. "My friend's father used to own this place," he told her, looking more and more like the Tom she knew so well with each passing moment. Come to think of it, he looked happier than the Tom she knew. "I wonder if he still does."

That, she expected, would ease Mama and Papa's nerves slightly when they were met by an inevitable barrage of questions about where they went and where they stayed. They could easily put a spin on it, telling a half truth: " _We stayed with Tom's friend,"_ she could say, while they nodded and imagined a modest house with at least two guest bedrooms preferably on opposite sides of the house.

The interior of the inn was as Mary expected it to be; the plaster wall was cracked in certain places and needed a new coat of paint. An older man with a gray beard sat at the desk, rising to his face. He greeted Tom, in what she knew must be Irish, before shaking his hand heartily. "I say, you've grown up! I remember when you were only this tall!" he exclaimed, bending down and measuring up to his knee.

"It's been a long time, Mr. Donnelly," said Tom, laughing. The sight made her heart feel full. "How's Patrick doing?"

"Good, good. He's in Dublin now, with his wife." The old man noticed Mary before asking, "And is this your wife?"

Mary didn't know what possessed her to do it, but she walked up to the desk, smiling and saying, "Yes. How do you do? I'm Mary. Mary Branson." It was the first time she spoke those two names together aloud, those two names that she had been thinking about obsessively for weeks now. She held a hand out. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Donnelly."

He shook her hand. "An English girl," he said, but not with any derision, which was a pleasant change. He glanced over at Tom. "I thought I heard something about you living in England."

"I do. We live near Mary's family." She felt his hand slide along her waist, pulling her closer to him. He didn't seem upset by her deceit— and he wasn't contradicting her, either.

"How did you meet, then?"

Mary finally glanced over at Tom. He didn't seem uncomfortable... "Well, I was a chauffeur at an estate. I met Mary while I was doing that." She supposed it wasn't a lie but it wasn't exactly the truth, either... but then again, the truth was rather complicated and would take a long time to explain.

The old man— Mr. Donnelly, she supposed he was called— smiled. "Well, you're in luck, Mr. and Mrs. Branson. I've only got one bedroom left, and it's yours if you'll take it."

"Thank you," Mary jumped in, "We will."

Once the transaction was complete, Mr. Donnelly lead them over to a narrow stairwell. There were only two bedrooms on the top floor. "You can eat dinner here at seven or eat on your own, Mrs. Donnelly'll make enough," Mr. Donnelly told them once he pointed to their room.

Tom thanked the old man as Mary walked into the room. It was small— it only took two paces from the edge of the full sized bed to the window. As Tom closed the door behind them, Mary walked over to the opposite door. The bathroom was small as well, due to the downward slipping ceiling; the door couldn't open fully due to the location of toilet. Mary had to shuffle sideways to enter the bathroom. There was enough room for her to stand in front of the sink, but she knew if Tom were in here, it would be impossible to comfortably stand back to back. The nicest feature, in her opinion, was the window, which allowed for a view of the seaside from the bathtub.

Mary shuffled out, finding Tom. He was in the process of undoing his tie. "It's not very big," he said, "but it's something."

Mary nodded. She wasn't quite sure how to feel— on the one hand, she knew a night in an establishment like this wouldn't kill her, but she couldn't deny it was a step down from what she was used to— though a more accurate description might have been a stumble down the metaphorical steps.

 _Don't be a snob,_ she told herself, looking at the eager expression on Tom's face. There were plenty of pleasant things about the place— it was well kept, no mold or dust. It had a nice view overlooking the busy street through some white curtains, and the bed, while not as large as hers at Downton or even the hotel last night, was more spacious than the one at Tom's.

"It's nice." Not splendid or extraordinary, but not awful, either. She sat on the edge of the bed, the only place in the room to really do so apart from two chairs at a small table near the window, but it was blocked by Tom's body.

"I'm glad you approve... Mrs. Branson." When she glanced at him, she saw he was smirking as he tossed the tie aside.

"I take it you aren't upset with me," she said, with relief. She hadn't meant to be presumptuous but she firmly intended on making it her name someday.

"On the contrary," he said, joining her in the bed. The springs beneath the mattress squeaked. "We'd have had to go somewhere else if you hadn't told him that."

"You know me— I always like to save money," she said sarcastically, earning a laugh from him. He laid down, stretching out on the bed, arms spread so that one was dangling off the edge. Hesitantly, Mary laid down as well, using his other arm as a pillow. It wasn't particularly comfortable, but when Tom's fingers began toying with her hair, she allowed herself to relax.

Mary let her eyes flutter shut. It only took a moment before she felt Tom roll onto his side, his nose prodding into her cheek. She could feel him speak when he asked, "Are you tired?"

"No. Not really."

"Good. Because we've got plenty of places we need to see yet." He kissed her cheek before hopping off the bed, causing the springs beneath the bed to squeak once more. Mary wondered if that might be a problem later as she rose to her feet.

"Aren't we going to drive?" asked Mary, when he passed by the Model T once they had left the inn.

"We don't need to," insisted Tom. He was ahead of her by four paces at least, and though he was dressed in a fine suit that made him fit in well at Downton, he looked more like the Branson who used to drive her around more than ever. Boyish and excitable, Tom approached the seashore.

The sand wasn't like the white sands she had encountered abroad; it was coarser, grainier than what she had ever seen before. Sea shells and other rocks had washed up, nearly everywhere across the beach. Mary was pleased she had her shoes on yet. As Tom came to stand right in front of the place where the waves rolled in, Mary craned her head around. She didn't see anyone else nearby. "Is it often crowded here? On sunny days?" The skies were rather grey and dark today, which might have been some explanation for the emptiness.

"A fair amount of people visit here, yes," answered Tom, looking out onto the horizon. A gust of wind blew through his hair, and Mary realized he hadn't bothered with pomade today. It took all self restraint not to reach over and touch it.

"It's lovely," said Mary, staring out across the water. She couldn't even see any land— just the vast, open sea. It was hard to believe that her home existed on the other side of this sea, hundreds of miles away from them— in so many ways, being in Ireland was like living in a different world entirely. She even felt like a different person.

"There's this place I wanted to take you—"

Tom was interrupted by a loud gurgling sound. Mary flushed. "Sorry," she apologized immediately. "I don't know what that was about—"

"I think I do," Tom said with a smile. "You need some lunch." He held out a hand. "Come on— I know the perfect place."

* * *

Tom tried not to laugh as Mary picked up a chip between her thumb and index finger, eying it suspiciously. "It won't bite you," he told her, popping one in his mouth.

Mary rolled her eyes, though she was smiling. "I was only thinking about what Granny would think if she could see us right now."

"It's probably best not to dwell on it," said Tom, stretching his legs out. They were sitting on a bench, not far from the coast, but far enough from the inn. He watched Mary with interest as she finally took a bite of her chip. "Good, isn't it?"

Mary chewed for a moment or two before answering. "It's not bad."

Tom chuckled. To be fair, he hadn't exactly expected her to declare her undying love for it. "It'll grow on you," he said, reaching for a piece of fish from the basket between them.

—

The sky was dark overhead but there was one last thing Mary needed to see today. He had planned on walking but now Tom felt it was best to drive. They went back to the inn, loaded into the car, and driving until they were outside the city. Once they had reached the familiar terrain of rolling green hills and craggy rocks, Tom parked the car along the side of the road. He held her hand, helping her across the uneven surfaces as she wobbled in her heels, leading her along the old, frequented path.

"It's a little steep," he warned her as they walked down the hill. The dirt path was littered with stones and pebbles, sloping downward until it reached the grey sea. "Maybe you'd best take off your shoes."

Mary hesitated before kicking them off on the lush green grasses and patches of clover. She turned over her shoulder, noticing a farmhouse at least one hundred feet away. "Is there anyone around?" Tom shook his head and was immediately shocked by how Mary lifted up her skirt, before asking, "Will you hold it for me?"

Tom did so, astonished. "What's this?" He asked, catching a glimpse of her stocking clad ankle.

"I don't want my stockings getting dirty," Mary explained. "Will you lift it a little higher?"

Tom did so as Mary maneuvered under her skirt. He tried not to gawk, instead asking, "Could I help? It might be easier if I..." He couldn't manage to find the right words but Mary seemed to understand what he meant anyway.

Mary ceased moving. "I didn't even think about that. Alright." She took the skirt from him, holding it up for him as he kneeled down.

Tom's pulse was hammering in his chest. He chastised himself inwardly, reminding himself that he had woken up in bed with her that very morning, but a part of him felt like this was the first time he was allowed to touch her. His right hand crept up her leg, brushing against the inside of her skirt, until his fingers met her garter belt. Both hand reached under, unfastening it, and one hand withdrew with the belt as the other slowly slid down her leg, dragging the stocking with it, relishing the feel of her smooth skin beneath his fingertips. He replicated it for the second stocking, noting how her breath hitched ever so slightly.

Once she had stepped out of them, he rose up, offering them to her. "Do you mind keeping them in the pocket of your jacket?" Mary asked, seeming almost flustered. Her eyes were dark but she was making no overt attempts to progress things further... though to be fair, they were standing atop a hill in the middle of the countryside, which wasn't exactly the most appealing venue for such an encounter.

"Do I get to keep them?" He teased.

"I'm not sure they'll fit you."

He let out a laugh before stuffing her garter belts and stockings in his pocket, linking their hands together. They walked down the path, Mary gripping his hands for dear life as she navigated her way down with bare feet. It occurred to him then how painful it must be, and wished it were possible to carry her down... only he was certain attempting such a thing would send them plummeting down the hill and face first into the cold sea.

"This is where Dad, Kieran, and I would go fishing," Tom told her, leading her over to a decent sized boulder with a flat edge that she could perch herself on. "Sometimes we'd even come swimming here, when the weather was nice." He remembered wading on this same shore, splashing Kieran as he and Dad laughed at the look on his face before getting dunked under the water himself.

"It's lovely," mused Mary, adjusting atop her new seat. Tom doubted it was the most comfortable place, but he figured her feet would thank him for it. After a pause, she said, "What was he like, your father? You don't seem to talk about him much."

"He was a good man," said Tom, staring out at the sea as if he could see Dad standing out there. "A quiet one. Busy." He worked long hours at a nearby furniture factory, leaving around the time Tom and Kieran had to be ready for school and not returning home until it was nearly dark. "We didn't exactly have much money growing up and what we did have came from him."

How different they were, he thought, when comparing their childhoods. Kieran never finished school, leaving as soon as he believed he was old enough to start earning some money nearby as a hall boy. Once their grandfather taught them to drive a tractor, he had his mind set on becoming a chauffeur, not content to work his way through the ranks at the local estate. But by that point Dad's health has deteriorated and Mam wouldn't hear a word about Tom leaving school. "God gave you brains for a reason and I won't let you squander it," she instructed him firmly when Dad finally had to leave his job. Mary, however, had been surrounded by tutors and governesses, practically told that she didn't need an education.

Her thoughts seemed to have taken the same direction as his. "How strange. We never had to worry for money and yet I never seemed to see my father often, either. Or Mama, really."

Tom turned to look at her. "Really?" He wasn't surprised, per say, as he now had a better understanding of how aristocratic families operated, but Mary had such a close bond with Robert now that it seemed hard to believe they had ever been distant.

Mary nodded. "An hour a day. Of course, it felt like less than that, when Edith and Sybil started joining me." Mary frowned. "Sometimes Papa would leave the room early and leave us with Mama and Nanny."

Tom softened. He couldn't imagine how that would feel... He was always grateful whenever he had time to spend with Dad. "I remember him doing that when George and Sybbie were younger," he said, nodding as he thought of Robert when the children were brought in.

Mary smiled, though it didn't quite meet her eyes. "Becoming a grandfather has changed him." She paused. "He would spend time with us on birthdays and things. And when he bought us our pony, he was excited to help us learn to ride... but the estate took up a lot of his time, and so did James and Patrick..."

James and Patrick... the two men who had been heirs to Downton before Matthew. He had heard previous little about them— most of it from Sybil, recounting stories about the latter heroically saving Edith or hiding from the nasty Fräulein Kelda with him in the maze. James, he gathered, had been a brash, no nonsense sort of man who often took his frustrations out on his only child.

It must have been such a burden to Mary, knowing the reason these cousins were there was because neither she nor her sisters were boys. Tom has never thought the system the family lives in fair, but he could see the toll now it had taken on Mary, wondering if her father would have spent more time with her had she been a boy.

At once, he wanted to do something to drive that sadness away. "Do you want to go swimming?"

"Pardon?"

"Swimming." He felt almost silly for asking now. "Here."

Mary appeared somewhat flustered, though the sadness was gone and she was smiling. "But I haven't brought anything to swim in," she said.

"Nor have I." He shrugged. "I only thought it might be fun... for old time's sake." When he saw her lips pursed together, he quickly said, "Forget it. It was a daft idea..."

"No it wasn't." Her eyes flickered out to the water. "I'm thinking." She hopped off her rock, being careful to not step on any point stones as she approached the bank. "Won't it be terribly cold?"

"I don't think it will be that bad." Despite the dark clouds looking overhead, the temperature of the air was surprisingly warm and the day before had been sunny and pleasant. "It won't be warm, but..."

Mary seemed to contemplate it further. "What if someone sees us?"

"There's nobody around," said Tom, knowing the nearest soul was likely miles away. "And... well, I suppose we can leave our undergarments on so we aren't completely indecent."

Her cheeks flushed, hinting at her embarrassment. It amused Tom slightly, knowing the extent of Mary's passion her her awkwardness whenever it was mentioned. Embarrassment aside, Mary stared out at the water again before reaching behind herself, her fingers working the buttons on the back of the dress. Tom stood there, momentarily transfixed by the sight of her undoing her clothes before hastily moving to do the same for himself.

Mary had much more contend with so when Tom, attired in only his pants, took a step into the water, he hid the shock of the chill. It was worse than he hoped it would be, but not unbearable. "How is it?" Mary called out as she folded her clothes up on the rock... which he supposed was a better place to put his clothes than the ground. He regretted creating more work for Jimmy when he returned but the damage had already been done.

"Not bad," he replied, hiding his smile. He waded out further until it reached his knees, goosebumps all over his skin. Thank God Mary wouldn't be able to see them from the shore. He glanced over his shoulder after her, watching as she approached the shore. "Come on in!"

It was intense effort that Tom stifled his laughter as Mary submerged her foot into the water, her gasp loud enough to be heard. She fixed him with a glare and exclaimed, "You—!"

Tom began laughing loudly now, her words drowned out. "I'm sorry," he said, not sounding it as he doubled over, hands on his knees. "Your face—"

Tom realized that Mary was approaching him, the water ripples and warping as she waded towards him. Before he could rise his full height, he felt a splash of water hit his side, looking up with his lips parted. Mary was grinning mischievously. "It's not so funny now, is it?" She challenged.

"Oh, I don't know," Tom said, smiling and taking a step towards her. She back away, already knowing what he was planning. She wasn't quick enough though and Tom had already pulled her close to him, bringing her out further into the water, holding her in his arms until he dropped her in once it was deep enough.

"Tom, you're absolutely horrible!" She exclaimed once she resurfaced, hair wet and hanging in her face.

"You don't mean that."

"I do right now," claimed Mary, but he leaned forward and kissed her cold lips. He tasted the salt water on them.

"I'll make it up to you," he promised in between kisses, bring her close to him. "Does that feel better?"

"You're hardly any warmer than I am," Mary breathed, though she pressed herself as tightly as possible to him and reciprocated his kisses with the utmost enthusiasm. The coolness of her skin didn't bother him nor the water or the goosebumps that had arisen. The world faded away and Tom felt whole.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I need to warn you that a part In this chapter deals with past sexual assault. I’ve added the appropriate tags to indicate such. Part of the reason this chapter took so long to post was because I was contemplating whether or not to leave this part in. I don’t think I’m the only person out there who is disappointed with the way the Mary/Pamuk and Tom/Edna storylines were framed in the show, so these moments are recognized for what they are. Nothing is graphic or even explicitly is mentioned about it, but Mary does reflect on the aftermath in some detail. Since this is a sensitive topic and the last thing I would want to trigger anyone, you can either skip this chapter and the final chapter will still make sense, or you can read up until the part where Tom mentions Pamuk to Mary and skip to the next (and last) page break of the chapter.
> 
> This is also the last official chapter of the story! The last one is more of an epilogue and I will likely post it some time tomorrow! I wanted to take a moment to thank everyone who has been reading this story. It’s been such a pleasure to write this story and I’m so appreciative to anyone who has read this far.

**Let You Live**

**Chapter** **Six**

The clothes stuck to their bodies, growing damp as they absorbed the moisture. Tom helped Mary do up her dress, his fingertips brushing against. The goosebumps remained on her smooth, cool skin. "Sorry," he said.

"What for?"

"It was colder than I thought it would be."

Mary shook her head. "Don't be. I managed to have a good time, despite the temperature." She angled herself around, pressing a lingering kiss to his lips. Tom bit back a groan. When she drew away, she asked, "What will Mr. Donnelly think when we come back in such a state?"

Tom shook his head. "He won't mind. He knows better than to ask silly questions."

Mary seemed to accept his answer just as a rumble of thunder sounded. "We had best hurry," Tom said, pulling his socks on over his wet feet— Damn, he shouldn't have even bothered. He wanted to take them off as soon as possible...

By the time he and Mary had finished dressing and climbed up the steep path, the wind picked up. Before they had reached the car, rain began falling from the sky. They ran back to the car, Tom using his still dry jacket to shield them from the rain and Mary carrying her shoes in hand. It only picked up once they were sheltered in the Model T.

"That was close," said Tom, throwing his jacket into the backseat. He knew that if the Dowager Countess were to see him now, she would be spluttering at the idea of him being improperly dressed, but truth be told Tom didn't care. He felt at ease, relaxed and calm.

"Very," agreed Mary. Before he had a chance to turn the car on, she said, "Do you think we ought to just wait here?"

"And do what?" asked Tom. "I can drive. A little rain won't..." He trailed off when he recognized the look in Mary's eyes. "Perhaps we can wait," he decided, meeting her gaze, heart beating in his chest. He glanced behind them, taking in the backseat. It might not be the most comfortable place, but it would be enough.

Mary's lips were on his mere seconds later and Tom began wondering if it had really been necessary for them to redress before Mary was tugging him into the backseat, and soon all conscious thought was driven from his mind.

* * *

It took a great deal of effort to extricate himself from Mary's arms. Finding alone time at Downton was never easy (especially now that everyone was aware they were together; there wasn't exactly a herd of chaperones but Robert and Cora kept a careful eye on them) and over the past couple of days, Tom hadn't exactly utilized his abundance of alone time with Mary for a number of obvious, justifiable reasons. However, now that he had once again been given a taste of what being with her entailed, Tom doubted he would be able to go long without again.

"It's going to get dark soon," remarked Mary. "We ought to head back to the inn."

Tom nodded, but continued to press kisses to every inch of exposed flesh. At present, her was bestowing each of her fingertips with a kiss, watching her face through his eyelashes.

Mary looked contented... at least for now. She removed her hand from his grasp, pushing back his hair. With a tender look in her eyes, she leaned forward and kissed him before sitting up completely.

The change in position meant she was ready to leave. Biting back a sigh, Tom reminded himself that there was a bed at the inn waiting for them and it would undoubtedly be more comfortable than the backseat of a rented car, but it was still so difficult to focus. He began doing up the buttons on his shirt that she had so cleverly undone, buttoning up his trousers again... Mary was in the process of fixing herself as well.

It was with slight embarrassment that Tom noticed the foggy windows and the handprint on the back window. He hoped nobody had seen them... he had no shame, not when it came to love, but he knew Mary was more restrained than he was when it came to these things.

Mary didn't say anything and after making sure they were presentable enough (and able to see out the windows), Tom turned the car around and headed back towards town. Though the rain had let up, there were sprinkles here and there. "Do you want to get anything from the store?" Tom asked, wondering if there was anything she might possibly need.

Mary waited before saying, "Perhaps a bottle of champagne?"

Tom wasn't sure if they sold such a thing but figured it couldn't hurt to check. He parked the car, gave her a quick kiss on the lips, and promised to return. He made good in that promise, returning once the heavens opened up a second time. "No champagne, I'm afraid, but they had some whiskey."

"I'm alright with that," Mary told him with a smile, leaning back into the seat. She crossed her legs, inadvertently flashing him a bit of bare ankle, and Tom was suddenly impatient to return to the inn.

The rain was pouring down once they arrived at the inn. "Here," Tom said, offering Mary his (mostly) dry jacket. "There's no sense in me wearing it." After his trip to the store, he was now soaking wet again.

Mr. Donnelly thankfully didn't comment on their wet clothes (though with rain, it was unlikely he would have many in the first place) or the way they kept giggling like schoolchildren, but Tom assured the man that they had already eaten and wouldn't be joining him and his wife for dinner. Mary practically dragged him up the stairs, the door closing behind them with an inadvertent slam.

Tom felt like a teenager again as his jacket slipped off Mary's shoulders and onto the floor, her lips and teeth grazing at his neck as she pinned him between her and door. He was busy contending with her dress when she whispered, in his ear, "I'm going to take a bath."

His fingers stopped moving. "Really? I had... other ideas, as to how we might spend our time."

"You don't want to join me, then?" She asked, drawing away so he could see the mischievous grin on her face.

Tom hesitated. He hadn't much chance to explore their new room... "Can we both fit?"

"We'll have to see, won't we?" She backed away before turning around, going to the bathroom. She didn't shut the door all the way, so Tom watched her as he kicked off his shoes. He sat on the edge of the bed to peel off his now damp socks. Mary had the right idea when she had tucked his stockings in the pocket of his jacket.

He heard the sound of running water as he went to the window, drawing the curtains shut. It was a fairly busy street and they could easily give some passerby an eyeful if they glanced up at the wrong second. Tom was busy undoing with his belt when Mary re-emerged. "So what's your professional assessment on the bathtub situation?" he asked, letting it drop to the floor.

"It may be a tight squeeze, but we should fit. Will you help me with my dress?" She spun around.

"Course." Tom unzipped her dress, savoring the sight of her pale flesh beneath the diaphanous material of her chemise. The sight of her like this took his breath away every time. He paid no attention to the dress hitting the floor, only her long legs stepping out from them and angling her body around.

Mary placed both hands on either side of his face, pulling him in. For a solitary moment, Tom felt he was in Heaven before being dragged back to Earth as she stepped back. "I'm going to check on the bath water," she said, somehow making it sound indecent. She let her dark eyes rove over him before saying, "Don't take too long."

Before she finished closing the door to the bathroom, Tom had already tugged his trousers off and was making quick work of his shirt, walking to the bathroom.

* * *

The bath water hadn't cooled, but their desire had. Mary had been right; it was a tight fit, but they managed to make it work. It was difficult to maneuver themselves in the tiny, cramped bathroom but it nevertheless resulted a pleasant, relaxing experience. The warm water was enough to starve away the chill from the sea and the rain. Mary luxuriated in the sensation of Tom's fingers in her hair as he washed it, soap suds clinging to his hands. It was why, when his fingers stilled, she had been concerned. "Is something matter?" she asked quietly, staring up at the yellowed ceiling.

She could feel Tom shaking his head behind her. "Just lost in my own thoughts." He bent his head, lips pressing against her wet shoulder.

Mary wasn't certain though. She leaned back into his touch, eyes closing shut as he resumed massaging her scalp again. She wasn't sure why, but she found herself asking, "Are you happy?"

"I'm in a bathtub with you. How could I not be?"

She shook her head, turning her head around. "That's not what I meant. I mean, are you happy at Downton... with me?"

An almost sad look came into his eyes. "Of course I am. You know that I love you." His hand, which had been under water, came to rest on her cheek. "What's brought this on?"

Mary wasn't sure she could look at him when she said this. "I... Well, your aunt said..."

"Aunt Nora said a lot of things and almost none of it was true," countered Tom, eyes hardened ever so slightly but Mary knew it wasn't because of her.

" _Almost_ none of it," said Mary, emphasizing the word to make her point. "There was some truth to what she said... and I just... I need to know." Tom seemed to accept this, nodding reluctantly. Mary continued after breathing in deep, readying herself. "She said that you... that you hated Downton. That you hated us. And I know," she said, cutting him off as he opened his mouth to protest, "that it isn't the case anymore. But... but I have a hard time believing she came up with that idea on her own... so when?"

Tom was silent for a moment before breathing out a sigh. She let herself turn forward again, neck and torso sore after cranking them around to face him. Still, she leaned back onto his chest, intent to make sure he knew she was listening to him yet. "It was long ago," he told her, lips close to her ear. "Long before I even knew any of you."

It was too vague. "When?" She asked again.

"During the war." She hadn't expected it to be quite so far back. He hadn't even been married to Sybil back then... giving him a look over her shoulder, he laughed. "I told you it was long ago." He let one of his hands settle on her waist as he said, "And I certainly didn't hate you— any of you. That's never who I was... but I didn't exactly approve of you."

Mary smiled in spite of herself. "Well, I suppose we weren't exactly approving of you back then, either." In her mind she had convinced herself this version of Tom who had been so angry with them had existed sometime during his marriage up to his departure for America.

"I think I know when it must have been," said Tom, straining his memory back. He brushed a strand of her wet hair back before saying, "There was a time when... well, I was feeling rather helpless." He swallowed. "I'd already told Sybil how I felt but she had rejected me... or at least that's how it felt. I wanted to stay at Downton and change her mind... but there didn't seem to be any sort of chance at that. I felt like I was wasting away here."

Mary couldn't help but feel rather sad. Truthfully, she didn't know many of the details surround Sybil and Tom's courtship, not until she had spotted them talking by the garage one day and subsequently injected herself into it. "When was this?"

Tom shook his head. "I can't remember the date or anything like that... but it must have been around the time that general came to Downton."

"General Strutt?"

"That's the one."

Truthfully, Mary couldn't remember when it was, either. Her thoughts had been otherwise occupied. Granny and Aunt Rosamund had concocted a scheme where she could convince Matthew to throw Lavinia over, so she hadn't really been absorbed in it all the fanfare of the convalescent home or the general... though there was one memory that stuck out in her mind. "Weren't you a footman for that luncheon?" she asked, recalling her surprise at seeing their chauffeur dressed in livery and watching him practically hauled out of the dining room by Mr. Carson.

Much to her surprise, Tom laughed. "Yes and no. I never got to serve anything..."

"That's right," she said, the memory coming in clearer. "What happened?"

"I acted like a fool."

"That doesn't exactly clear things up," said Mary, somewhat annoyed he wasn't disclosing the story. She had never even thought to ask Sybil or Anna what had happened that day... though she hadn't realized Sybil would have any insight at the time.

"It's a bit of a long story."

"Do you have anywhere else to be?" countered Mary.

Tom let out a sigh but she sensed he was smiling... more likely because of her than the tale he was about to tell. "Like I said, I felt hopeless. I was getting nowhere with Sybil and I felt stuck at Downton. I wrote a letter to Mam where I vented all my frustrations... I probably shouldn't have even bothered sending it, as that's probably what Aunt Nora was referencing. But then I was called up."

Mary vaguely recalled talk upstairs about their chauffeur receiving his letter from the War Office. She hadn't thought much about it at the time, her thoughts more concentrated on Matthew and his safety. She had, however, felt sad at the idea of yet another young man being sacrificed for the seemingly endless war. And now... now she was so glad he had never gone at all. Where would she be without him in her life? Who could have brought her out of that dark mist if there had been no Tom?

"I was looking forward to it," Tom disclosed. "Not because I wanted to be a hero for England or anything like that. I wanted a chance to make some grand gesture to humiliate the army."

"Well, I'm glad you didn't," said Mary sharply, horrified at the thought of what might have happened. He certainly would have been languishing in a jail cell, maybe even up until this day.

"Me too," said Tom, with a chuckle. "But the point is that... well, I was angry. Angry with England, angry with the war, angry with Sybil, even... and when I was turned down, it was even angrier yet because I never had a chance to take all of that out anyone. My frustrations just kept building up and building up... I was probably wasn't a pleasant person to be around," he observed, almost as an afterthought. Mary didn't laugh at that, though she was amused nonetheless, contrasting that image against her Tom. "So when the general came to Downton, I saw my opportunity. I volunteered to be a footman, then I filled up the soup bowl with some disgusting mixture of ink and sour milk and planned to dump it on his head."

Mary let out a laugh that shocked even her. "I'm so sorry," she said, giggles overtaking her. "I'm glad you didn't get away with it, but... oh, that would have been a dinner we never would have forgotten!"

Tom let out a chuckle as well. "I wrote Sybil a note and left it in her room, but Anna found it before I did and thought I was planning to assassinate him. So that's why Carson dragged me out of there."

Mary was still laughing, now harder than before. The idea of Tom as an assassin sounded so foreign to her... maybe it was because of how kind and gentle she knew him to be. "I'm sorry, my darling," she choked out, "but I can't get the image of it out of my head."

"Well, I'm glad you find it funny, at least. Nobody else did at the time. I thought I was going to get sacked."

"Why weren't you?"

Tom shrugged behind her. "Mrs. Hughes told me that Mr. Carson didn't think it was bad enough to warrant that. Can you believe it?"

Mary's giggles stopped at once. "No," she admitted, "I can't." Carson had been the one to stop it? He was usually a stickler for the rules... and she didn't think he would approve of such behavior from a servant, even if he had been able to intervene in time. She wondered if maybe Mrs. Hughes had something to do with it; she had a soft spot for Tom and Carson had a soft spot for her.

Tom let out a sigh, bringing her closer to him. "There was a time he liked me, you know. He didn't approve of my radical ideas or talk of politics in the servant's hall, but he liked me. It's hard to imagine now."

"I think he likes you now," insisted Mary.

"Are you sure about that?"

"Yes," she said, spinning around again. "He respects you. He sees that you love Downton, that you are a part of the family..." she trailed off.

"I think he respects me because he believes it is his place to do so," said Tom, leaning back further against the back of the tub, tilting his head towards the ceiling. "And I don't think he dislikes me like he did when I first came... but I think it would be generous to say he likes me... especially once he heard about us."

Mary frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I gather he thinks it quite scandalous... the idea of you and I together."

Mary couldn't deny she was hurt. "Who told you that?"

"Jimmy," he answered easily. "We were talking about it... Mrs. Hughes told him, of course." Noticing the look on her face, he quickly added, "He's not mad with you, love. Not at all. No... he places the blame on me for leading you astray."

It didn't make Mary feel any better. While she was glad to know that Carson wasn't disappointed in her, knowing he held Tom in such contempt wounded her greatly. All these years, she had searched for a man who could bring her happiness, help her preserve Downton for George, and be her partner in all respects... and she had found that in Tom. "Well, I shall have a talk with him," she resolved, "and rectify this mistake."

"You don't have to do that," insisted Tom, wet fingertips tracing against her jaw in an attempt to soothe her. "Really. I don't mind."

"Well, I do!" Mary supposed she understood his indignant attitude towards his own family now, that desire to shield him from the harsh views of others. She maneuvered herself around so she could meet his blue eyes and stare into them deeply. "I _love_ you," she said, trying to inject all her emotions into that one simple phrase that wasn't so simple after all.

Tom reached for her hand, bringing it to his lips. "Oh, Mary..."

Their lips met, Mary desperately trying to let Tom know the full extent of her love for him. How could she have ever thought she didn't? She had been such a fool, only a few months ago, she felt like a whole other person. It seemed ridiculous to her now, the idea that what was between them was anything but the sincerest love. Nobody living knew her as he did.

When they finally parted, Mary realized how tepid the bath water had become. "We ought to finish this up," she told him with a smile before asking him to help her rinse her hair. She was the first to get out, realizing it was the easiest way for them to navigate their way out of the cramped bathroom. She tried to ignore the feeling of Tom's eyes on her as she wrapped towel around her.

Mary padded across the floor, wet feet leaving footprints behind her as she walked over to her suitcase, nearly tripping over her damp, discarded dress. Mary sighed out of her nose, bending down while gripping the towel as she picked it up. Uncertain of what to do with it, Mary draped on one of the bedposts. It hung in a long, shapeless way. She frowned at it until the bathroom door swung open, revealing Tom drying himself off.

"Good idea," he said when he noticed what she was doing. Mary averted her eyes as he knelt down, scooping his clothes off the floor. It felt wrong, to gape at him, so Mary walked over to where the whiskey bottle was. She eyed it, unscrewing the lid.

"Damn."

"What?"

"We don't have any glasses," she said, turning around and showing him the bottle. "I was about to pour us some."

"We can drink out of the bottle," Tom suggested.

Mary was dubious but brought it to her lips. The liquid burned down her throat as she swallowed it down before offering it to Tom. He took it from her, fingertips brushing together before he took a generous swig. Her eyes traced over his lips down to his throat, allowing herself to admire him. How was it possible this man was hers?

She had no idea what prompted it; one moment she moving to sit on the bed as he sat the bottle back down and the next she was remembering the leering, flirtatious gaze of that woman who had spoken to them at the funeral, the one who had caused Mary to see red until Tom's arm wrapped around her...

"Tom," Mary began, feeling incredibly stupid for asking, but unable to help herself, "Who was that woman at the funeral? The one who came up to us?"

Tom's eyebrows furrowed. He ran the towel through his hair. "Sinead?"

"Yes. Her." Mary swallowed back her jealousy to ask, "Who was she?"

Tom's movements ceased. "I knew her a long time ago," he began, setting the the towel down. Pieces of hair stuck up in the air in a way Mary ordinarily would have found endearing if she didn't feel so sick to her stomach. "We went to school together. She was year below me."

"She was awfully familiar," Mary commented, the words sliding out without much thought.

Tom let out a sigh before meeting her eye. "She was my girlfriend. Before I left Ireland."

There it was, out in the open. Mary was certain she would feel one of two ways: either relieved, to know the truth, or absolutely wretched. She hadn't anticipated on the emotion in between. "Oh."

"We were young," Tom explained, walking slowly across the room before sitting next to her on the bed. "It lasted a year at most... Probably less than that. But we weren't well suited and she had her eye on another, so we ended things."

Mary couldn't ask the next question, even as it burned on the tip of her tongue. She had never dared ask this question; Matthew had willingly volunteered the information to her, prior to their wedding, merely prefacing it with, " _Since you were honest with me, I must be honest with you_ ," before disclosing a brief, inconsequential affair (which, in Mary's opinion, hardly counted) with a girl he had met at a library in Cambridge. She was the daughter of a theology professor, funnily enough, who had taken an interest in Matthew. It hadn't gone far, nowhere near as far as Mary's first experience, and while Matthew professed to enjoying himself, he conceded, " _I want to wait until I found someone I loved before taking that final leap. And now, I have_."

"Was... that is... were you lovers?" Mary finally asked Tom, fingers playing with the edges of her towel. Once the words were out, she felt like burying herself under the covers.

Tom was hesitant but not embraced to say, "We were."

Mary nodded. Though she had wanted to know, she couldn't help but be upset with herself for asking. She didn't know what to do with this knowledge, now that she had it, but now that she had unearthed it, she still had more to ask. She had opened up Pandora's box. "Was she the first?"

"She wasn't."

"I see."

"Does that upset you?" Tom looked concerned, leaning closer.

She didn't dare look at his face. She didn't love him any less— but it was a jarring realization. "Would you think me awful and silly if I said yes?"

"No— not at all." He wrapped an arm around her. "We can't really control how we feel."

"Well, right now I feel silly. I didn't even know you back then..." She leaned into him, still not meeting his eyes. Tom's touch continued to be a comfort. "It bothers me and it doesn't. I can't explain it. Maybe it's that... that I feel like there is still so much about you that I don't know yet."

"Now you know how I feel." That caused Mary to jerk her head. She met Tom's eyes, seeing his warm, affectionate smile. "You've so many hidden depths. Just when I feel like I know all there is to know, you surprise me with something new."

The rigidity in her shoulders subsided. She supposed it was like that. "It's strange," she mused, "how you cannot possibly know everything there is to know about one person and yet fall in love with them anyway."

Tom smiled down at her. "That's not me, love. Those dalliances— they weren't who I was." His fingertips were rubbing her shoulder. "You know everything that's important."

She knew more about him than he realized. "I know," she whispered. She relaxed into his touch. "I just... well, I suppose that... I never thought about it. What your love life was like before Sybil."

"I never really considered what it was like before you and Matthew, either," mused Tom, flopping onto the bed. The springs squeaked. "I mean, apart from what I was there to see."

Mary supposed he was referencing Richard Carlisle... but even then, the only one who really captured her interest was Matthew. "I didn't really have much of one, to be honest," she admitted, laying down by his side. "They were... well, flirtations, really. Nothing serious. Honestly, you know about all of mine," said Mary, tugging the towel closer to her body.

"Not quite," Tom pointed out, good humored as he kissed her shoulder. "I don't know much about Pamuk. What made you choose him?"

"I didn't," Mary replied honestly, not thinking before speaking. She didn't like dwelling on her encounter with Mr. Pamuk— her folly had nearly damaged the reputation of the family irreparably, not to mention the traumatic ordeal of pushing a dead man off from her and carrying him across the house with only her mother and maid for help. "Not really. He just appeared in my room."

Tom lifted his head up, away from her. She was almost afraid to look at him until he asked, "What?"

"He appeared in my room," Mary repeated, heart rate quickening. She had never told anyone this much— not even Matthew. Her confession to him fell in line with the one she had given Tom, purely the bare bones of the interaction. She turned away, too afraid to watch his face. What if he thought her brazen or wonton? _He's never complained before,_ a small voice reminded her, thinking of their escapades in hotel rooms and in the back of the car not two hours ago. "We— well, we had spent the whole day horse riding, and he was very, very handsome. I knew he liked me and I suppose I liked him as well." No one had ever been so obvious about their feelings for her— it left Mary simultaneously enthralled and mystified at the same time. "But right after dinner, he convinced me to follow him into another room and he suddenly just kissed me—" Tom moved slightly but Mary tried to ignore it. _He's loves you,_ she told herself, _whatever you say won't change his mind._ "—and asked if he could come to my room."

"And what did you say, then?" Tom's voice was low. Mary risked a glance his way, finding him staring straight ahead at the curtain covered windows.

"I told him no. Obviously," she swallowed. "I never could have said _yes_."

"So you didn't want him to? To come to your room?"

"Of course I didn't," Mary said, fingers digging into the duvet. "I didn't know him. We'd only met that day— the scandal—"

"So he showed up in your room that night anyway?" His voice was hard— Mary hadn't heard him sound this way in a long while. It was the same way he sounded when he had spoken of his desire for Irish freedom the night before her wedding. Her hands trembled. She thought of their first night together in that way at the Ritz— or rather, the morning after, when she tried to scamper away, insisting it was just lust between them. _I don't know about you, but I don't just fall into bed with people I don't care about,_ he'd said to her. Of course... he was probably disgusted by her behavior... "Did you tell him to leave?"

"Of course I did!" Mary said emphatically, hoping desperately this knowledge would be enough to redeem herself in his eyes. She dared glance at him again, dismayed by the sight of his tightened jaw and flinty eyes. "I threatened to scream, but then he pointed out I would be ruined once a man was discovered in my room..." She swallowed again. "So I figured that if I was to be ruined anyway... I might as well... so I let him."

Tom's hand tightened into a fist as he rose from the bed. Mary wanted to look away but her eyes followed after him as he walked over to where there whiskey was. He took in a deep breath, almost as if he were about to say something, then opened the bottle and taking a generous swig. Her eyes fell to his throat as he swallowed it down. Tom wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before saying, "Well, the bastard's lucky he's already dead."

"Tom!" Mary cried out, not because of the language but more at his reaction... She hadn't expected this. Considering he didn't harbor deep seated traditional values as nearly everyone else in her life, it made sense he didn't blame her. Still, she hadn't expected Mr. Pamuk to bear the brunt of his ire.

"Well, he is," Tom defended himself. He glanced down at the whiskey again before tightening the lid back on. "He raped you, Mary. You do know that, don't you?"

That word was more shocking to her than _bastard_. "How could it have been?" Mary asked quietly, looking away from him. "I didn't fight him off—"

"You told him you didn't want him there." Tom sat the bottle down. "You didn't consent to it."

Mary blinked. What he was saying— she thought about Mama asked her if she'd been forced and how she had shaken her head. How different would things have been if she had said he had? "But I— but I let him," she insisted weakly, thinking of how shamelessly she had flirted with him. "I kissed him— I—"

Tom had sat the drink down, walking across the room. She felt silent as he approached her. Gently, her put her face between his hands and tilted it upward. It was a motion that should have felt possessive, but instead it was tender more than anything. It felt like Tom was barely even touching her, and she hardly realized he was. "But would you have ever invited him there in the first place? Would you have wanted him there?" He looked into her eyes, no judgement lingering there. If anything, he looked quite saddened.

She could barely hear her own voice as she whispered, "No."

Her eyes closed. She felt his lips brush over the crown of her head before his hands lowered so that he could pull her whole body closer to him. She didn't want to cry, not when they'd had such a lovely time together that day, but Mary couldn't help it. A sob escaped her and Tom held her tighter. "It's alright, love," he whispered, and judging by the sound of his voice, he sounded as if he were crying as well. Mary let go, burying her face into his stomach as the tears continued to fall.

Soon, it managed to subside, and Mary was left sniffling, inhaling the scent of soap on Tom's skin and feeling his hands, his fingers, trailing along her back. The towel that had been wrapped around his waist had fallen to the floor at some point, escaping her notice until just now. It was silly, considering they had been in the bath together earlier, but Mary felt her cheeks grow warm as she pulled her face away to look up at him.

Just as she had suspected, he had cried as well, as evidenced by the tear stains on her cheeks. "I'm sorry," she said reflexively, moving her hand to wipe her eyes, but Tom beat her to it, brushing it away with his thumb.

"Don't apologize," he said, voice low. His gaze was full of reverence, of concern... of his love. Mary felt undeserving of it and at the same time never wanted him to stop looking at her like that. "Not to me." His hand fell, his fingertips now circling her arms. "Not about _this_."

Mary swallowed. Though it happened so long ago, a part of her had never recovered. She had always assumed it to be a lasting result of how ruined she was, of the loss of her last shred of innocence that society held so dear, because of the fact he had died on top of her, pinning her body between his corpse and the bed... but now, she realized, it was more. She tried imagining how she would react if a daughter of hers had come to her with same story... if, God forbid, Sybbie were to repeat something like this and the horror she would feel hearing about a strange man entering her bedroom. She shuddered at the thought, goosebumps rising to her skin, and she realized her towel had fallen as well, now laying beneath her on the bed.

"Did— did you ever tell Matthew?" asked Tom hesitantly, taking a step back so that he could join her on the bed. "About what you told me?"

"Not the full story. Not what I just told you." A part of her wanted to reach for the towel again, to cover herself up, but another realized how futile it would be. Still, her hands itched to the edges of the towel, fingers playing nervously with the corners. "I told him... that it happened. That I had—" How should she phrase it? She didn't want to compare it to what they had, what she and Matthew had, but how? Finally, she said, "—that I wasn't pure," she said, still hating the way those words tasted in her mouth. "I told him what I told you the first time." She blinked. "He— we didn't discuss it much after that. It still would... upset me. To talk about it back then."

Tom nodded, seemingly deep in contemplation. "I've never liked the way everyone frames it," he said, glancing at her with unabashed adoration. "Calling it purity. No one is perfect, and I don't think being with someone in that way taints your character in the slightest." He leaned back, using one hand to support himself. "I think everyone puts too much emphasis on it and doesn't focus enough on the things that really matter."

"I don't like calling it that, either," admitted Mary. She remembered all too well the shame she had felt when she arose the following morning, the way she had scrubbed at her skin in the bath until it was red until Anna's hand reached for her wrist to stop her from hurting herself further. She felt like such a fraud when Evelyn Napier had looked up at her in awe, as if she were a goddess, asking her to walk around the gardens with him. _He wouldn't be asking you if he knew,_ she had told herself before making her excuses. When she had ran up the stairs in tears and locked herself in her room, all she could think was how spoiled she was, how no man could ever want her if they knew what she had done. It had taken her far too many years to unlearn the lessons she had been taught through whispered gossip; she had no defects and men still wanted to be with her, still loved her, even when they knew they knew she wasn't theirs only. "But I didn't want to draw comparison between _that_ and... us." She met his eyes. "There was never love there. Not like with us."

Tom closed the distance between them with a kiss, his fingers now tracing her jaw. Mary leaned forward, hands pressed against his chest. There was no rush of desire, no frantic fervor, only their love. His heart thundered beneath her left hand and Mary knew it beat only for her in this moment.

Once the kiss ended, Mary moved away. The chill from the air had all but dissipated, but it still felt so strange to her, to be like this when they weren't intimate. She reached for the towel yet again, drawing it close to her. "I know it might... it might seem unbelievable, but... but I know how you feel," Tom said, almost hesitant.

It was then he told her about Edna. Mary didn't say a word, not telling him that she already knew, for that would mean explaining all the other things she was aware of. They'd had enough heavy conversations for now, and Tom deserved a chance to explain it in his own words, just as she had. Nevertheless, it hurt to hear. Tom mentioned her sly comments, the time she walked in on him changing and kissed him, and then what happened after she was hired as Mama's maid... and then that horrid night. Anger and sadness were equal in measure as she listened, jaw clenching and lips trembling.

"She didn't mean anything to me," he assured Mary, still holding her close. "I didn't... I thought at one point that maybe it was just the timing was wrong... but I can see now she wasn't... that she wasn't a good person. And not the sort of person I would ever want in my life or Sybbie's."

Mary's anger was restrained only by her desire to remain levelheaded for Tom's sake. "No. No, certainly not." She hesitated. "But... but what made you think that you were ever responsible for whah happened?"

Tom let out a sigh. "I thought I must have given her the wrong impression." That was an all too familiar feeling... "I thought... I must have done something, to give her the idea that was what I wanted. But truthfully I didn't remember that night much at all. It wasn't until I sat down and realized I'd never said anything to her or invited her in... but that wasn't until I went to Boston that it occurred to me." Mary hated thinking of him all alone in America, still grappling with bitter regret over something that wasn't his fault in the first place. "I know if some man made the excuse that woman was drunk, I wouldn't blame her. So I fail to see how it should make a difference for me."

"It doesn't," said Mary quickly, leaning forward and pecking his lips. "It doesn't at all, my darling. You were not to blame... and neither was I."

Mary was never certain who began it, but their lips found one another again and again and again. Words meant plenty but actions spoke even louder. She knew she didn't have to worry about Tom, not anymore when he decided he was ready, they would be married. It was a matter of when, not if.

* * *

Night fell, the sky darkening early for a spring night. Another storm rolled through, this time accompanied by thunder and lightning. Tom remembered being a small child, creeping through their small home to his parents bedroom, tearful and asking to slip under the covers with him, frightened.

He had no fear now. Mary was resting her head on his chest, arm wrapped around him. Lightning flickered outside and held her tighter than before. He pressed a kiss to her forehead. They hadn't spoken in quite some time, no words feeling quite right or necessary to break the calming silence. They had held one another, kissed one another, assuring one another of their devotion. Tom had never realized until now just how much he had needed it.

"I almost don't want to leave," murmured Mary suddenly, her mouth moving on his chest.

"Leave where?"

"Here."

Tom wasn't sure what she meant— Ireland, Bray, this inn, this room, this bed— but his answer was the same for each. "Me either." He felt like there was only the two of them in this world.

Her fingers twitched, connecting with his ribs. Thunder tumbled, managing to make the window panes rattle. "Goodness."

"The craftsmanship isn't quite up to the standards of Downton," remarked Tom, though it didn't bother him at all.

Mary said nothing, but moved her head. He felt her lips connect against his skin, paralyzing him as he was overwhelmed by the wondrous sensation of her tongue darting out. It was less desire, more an effort to remain close to one another. He felt her love it every brush of her lips, every twitch of her fingers. She continued her path upward, hand slipping down lower until it connected with his hip, just as she pressed a kiss to his clavicle, causing him to gasp out, "Mary— Mary, _a mhuirnín—"_

Mary drew away, sitting upright. Tom mourned the loss of her touch. He wondered if he had done something wrong... Her silhouette was illuminated by another flash of lightning. "What does that mean?" she asked, and at once he understood she wasn't upset.

He relaxed. "My darling," he answered, reaching out to take her hand in his. He met her eyes as best as he could in the dark. It was an endearment that usually only slipped out late at night, something that the thought of her as in his mind. "Do you— do you not want me to call you that?"

Her response was a fervent, passionate kiss, their lips meeting the moment the thunder crashed. Tom reached out, arm wrapping around her waist as he pulled on top of him, heart racing and savoring her touch, hands intertwined. He let his eyes close shut, his hand gently touching the nape of her neck, amazed that they could love like this. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Let You Live**

**Epilogue**

It was hard to say goodbye to Ireland when he had only just returned, but his other home was waiting for him. "We'll come back," Mary murmured in his ear as he watched the island disappear from view on the deck of the ferry. A white mist was obscuring it from view, along with the distance.

Tom smiled before turning around to kiss her. He loved her all the more for saying it, pleased to know she had a favorable impression of his home.

He soon realized just how serious she was. "What are these, love?" he asked a week later, noticing a pile of unfamiliar papers and pamphlets on her desk in their office. He stood behind her, trying to read what they said and resting a hand on her shoulder.

"Listings," Mary told him, a pen in hand. She didn't look up from the page. "For properties in Bray."

Tom felt his mouth grow dry. "You're looking for a house, then?"

"Of course," Mary said, glancing up at him. "I told you we would go back, didn't I?" He nodded mutely as she turned back. "As thoroughly as I enjoyed our stay in the inn, I don't know if it would be the best place to stay if we were to bring the children."

He could hardly believe it. "You want to bring Sybbie and George?"

"Don't you?" asked Mary, turning around to look up at him. He saw the slightest amount of insecurity in her gaze. "I would have thought— that is, if things had gone the way they were supposed to, that's where you and Sybbie would be living. I thought you might want to bring her, to show her your home. So it only makes sense to purchase something." She glanced away, as if suddenly uncertain.

Tom bent down, hand reaching up to touch her cheek. She turned towards him again, allowing him to kiss her slowly. _God, I love you,_ he thought, amazed by her. "Things _have_ gone they way they were supposed to," he reminded her, stroking her cheek with his thumb. "And home for me is wherever you are."

She was silent for a moment, staring up at him with parted lips. Then she grinned, her eyes lighting up, looking so pleased that Tom couldn't help but close the gap between them once again.

They began looking at the listings. Mary circled the ones that sounded promising and made phone calls. Her devotion to finding the proper place began consuming a large part of time. Tom knew they ought to focus on the crops for the upcoming harvest but he too was engrossed in the house hunting. It thrilled him, to know there would be a place in Ireland for him, for her, for the children.

"This one has a garden," Mary pointed out, using the tip of her pen to point out which one she was referring to.

Tom had to stop himself from pointing out it was likely a vegetable garden, not the sort of gardens Downton had. He scanned the listing before saying, "There's only two bedrooms."

Mary glanced up at him, arching an eyebrow. "Do we need any more than that?"

His heart raced in his chest. "Do you want your parents to join us at some point? Or Bertie and Edith or Nuala and Rian?" He knew Mary had exchanged letters with his cousin already since their return and was enormously pleased that they were getting on.

Mary blinked. "I hadn't thought of that," she admitted. She looked up at him through her dark eyelashes. "I was thinking it might be the place we would go when we wished to get away from everybody else."

She had no idea the effect her words had on him. A place in Ireland, just them and their little family...

His thoughts trailed off. If Mary wanted a house with only two bedrooms, that meant the children would share a room and they would as well. Was she... did she want...?

He nodded. "We might need something with more bedrooms though, even if we aren't expecting company," he said carefully, studying her out of the corner of his eye. Tom was fairly certain he wouldn't be crossing any lines with his next statement but he couldn't help but be wary. Mary was never predictable and he never knew how she might react. "We never know if we'll have more children in future."

Mary was still for a moment. Tom wondered if he may have been being presumptuous until she ducked her head down to try and hide her smile from him. "I suppose you're right. I had better keep that in mind."

Time moved on. Sybbie's sixth birthday rolled around and the Crawleys went all out to make it a perfect day for her. At Mary's insistent urging, Tom had given her the bear, which earned him a hug and a, "Thank you, Daddy! I love it!" Still, as pleased as she was, his gift was somewhat overshadowed by the present from her grandparents.

"A pony!" Sybbie squealed, running over to the stable door that Robert has lead them to. George was at her side, standing on his tip toes to look into the small pen. Tom took pity on the boy and scooped him up so he could get a better look. The Shetland pony looked up at them through a white mane that obscured his eyes.

"He's been looking forward to meeting you," Robert told her, beaming. "And he needs a name yet."

"We always try to give our horses names that start with the letter D," Cora reminded her, bending down so she was level with Sybbie.

Sybbie's mind was made up almost immediately. "His name is Donk," she proclaimed.

That answer caused nearly everyone in the room to laugh. "Won't that be confusing, Sybbie darling?" Mary asked on his left. "How will we tell the difference between him and the real Donk?"

"Perhaps she could start calling me Grandpapa," Robert offered. Tom wondered if he was still hung up on the name Sybbie had christened him with all those years ago.

"Or," Mary said, leaving Tom's side, "we could name him after one of characters from the book I bought you last birthday."

The pony was quickly renamed Dionysus, Robert remained Donk, and Mary was instructing Sybbie how to mount the pony. "Will you teach me _everything_ about riding, Mary?" Sybbie asked once she was on the saddle. She was wearing a clear expression of admiration.

"I'll teach you everything I know," Mary told her, "which is practically everything."

Mary kept her promise. Every other day, he walked to the office alone, watching as Mary taught Sybbie how to ride her pony in the pastures while atop Diamond. The sight of them together warmed his heart. He'd long wondered if Sybbie had suffered all this time from the lack of a maternal figure in her life... but Mary had always been there. She'd been one of the first people to hold his daughter in her arms, loving her from the moment she had taken her first breath.

"I'm sorry," Mary apologized one afternoon a week later when she joined him in the office, somewhat dazed and her cheeks pink from exertion. Tom wondered if it was from riding or if she had hastened herself to the office. "I feel as though I'm barely here anymore."

Tom just shook his head. "If you think I'm going to be upset with you for making my daughter happy, you've got another thing coming."

The weeks wore on. Tom knew it was almost time. During one of Mary and Sybbie's lessons, Tom went up to the nursery. "Do you mind if I borrow George for the afternoon?" He asked Nanny Anderson, who happily obliged him.

"Where're we going, Tom?" George asked from the backseat as they rolled down the driveway.

"We're going on a secret mission," Tom told him, grinning at him from the rear view mirror. "Just like we did when we bought your Mummy her necklace... only this time you can't tell anyone else, not even Sybbie. Can you promise to keep it secret?"

George's eyes grew wide. Tom saw a glimpse of Matthew as he nodded eagerly. "Good. I knew I could trust you," Tom told him. Had he been sitting next to him, Tom might've ruffled his hair.

They went to the same jeweler's in York as last time. Tom asked the man behind the counter where he could find the rings. He and George examined each one. "Mummy would like that one," George said, pointing at an emerald ring, his longer finger smudging the glass as he poked at it. "Or that one." He looked up at Tom. "She likes red."

The latter had a ruby in the center— just like the necklace and earrings he had purchased a few months prior. Tom could picture it on her finger easily, looking at home there... but then again, every ring here would look wonderful on Mary. Her effortless beauty would make anything here pale in comparison.

He thought of her words on her birthday, her insistences that he needn't buy her luxurious things. As much Tom loved to lavish her with beautiful things, he thought about taking her words to heart. A wedding ring should be special, but it should mean something as well.

There was a plain, gold band that caught his eye. It wasn't inexpensive by any stretch of the imagination, but something about it caught his eye. It was elegant in its simplicity, something that would catch the light no matter where it went. He suspected any ring she bought for him would be similar in design... they would match.

"What about this one?" he asked George, pointing to it through the glass.

Tom paid attention to the young boy's face with almost embarrassing scrutiny. He wanted George to approve, wanted to make sure Mary wouldn't hate it... and was delighted when he said, "It's pretty. Mummy would like it."

"Then we had better buy her this one," he said to George. He knelt down to little boy's height. "George, the reason all this needs to be a secret is because I want to ask your mother to marry me. What do you think about that?"

George practically attacked him with a hug, his tiny arms almost constricting Tom's throat. A burst of laughter escaped him as he hugged George back, even as tears sprung to his eyes. He scooped George up into his arms before telling the jeweler, "We'll take this one."

The ring was tucked away in a drawer at his house, the same one where his last letter from Mam resided. He made a show of putting a finger to his lips as he closed it for George's benefit. Tom knew it was somewhat presumptuous, buying the wedding ring before he had even proposed, but he was fairly confident of the answer she would give.

George was taken back to the house and Tom drove down to office, humming to himself as he did so. He even began whistling when he strode into the office, causing Mary to jerk her head up from her paperwork. "You startled me," she said, a hand flying up to her chest. Her brown eyes narrowed. "Where were you?"

"Since you've been spending so much time with Sybbie, I figured I'd go into York with George." It was an honest answer— Tom's speciality. He was no good at lying and he never had any desire to lie to her.

Mary relaxed slightly. "Did you two have fun?"

"We did."

"Good." Mary turned back to her paper. "What do you think about this house?"

Tom walked to stand beside her. It claimed to have four bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a view overlooking the sea. "It sounds almost too good to be true."

"It's not exactly cheap," said Mary, pointing to the price.

Tom stared at the amount— this house was the sort of thing his younger self would have dreamed of owning. Somewhere safe, something secure for his wife and children...

"Do you think I ought to enquire after it?" Mary asked.

Tom nodded before bestowing a kiss to the top of her head. "Go right ahead. It sounds lovely."

Mary marked something on the paper as Tom walked over to his desk, unable to take his eyes off her, knowing he was looking at the future Mrs. Branson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading this story! I plan on continuing with the universe at some point, but I think it will be a while before you see Part 3. I'll be working on other WIPs for a while — most of them are Brary, so keep a look out for that if you are interested! Thank you all so much once again and remember to stay safe!


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